


God only knows (what I'd be without you).

by AmazonWorrier



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Kurt Hummel & Santana Lopez Friendship, Mentions of Suicide Attempt, Minor Santana Lopez/Dani - Freeform, Multi, NYC loft dynamic, Rachel Berry & Santana Lopez Friendship, and happy endings for all, brittana endgame, but nothing graphic, minor depictions of rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 103,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmazonWorrier/pseuds/AmazonWorrier
Summary: In the aftermath of Finn's death, Santana is too busy helping Rachel to notice her own life falling apart in front of her. It takes a village to help put it back together.Canon until 'The Quarterback.' Loosely follows the events of season 5 (without the dumb Pezberry feud).
Relationships: Dani/Santana Lopez, Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez, Rachel Berry & Kurt Hummel & Santana Lopez, Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Rachel Berry/Santana Lopez, Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Comments: 121
Kudos: 193





	1. Set me on Fire in the Evening (Santana)

Thirty seconds. 

It was the amount of time it took her to decide to join Glee club.

The amount of time it took Finn to out her in the hallway of McKinley High (and the time it took her to slap him senseless in front of everyone in the auditorium later on).

It had taken less than thirty seconds to utter those five horrible words to the love of her life (“you know this isn’t working”).

And a similar amount for that same girl to break her heart in return, when she pushed her to move to New York and pursue her dreams instead of becoming a Lima Loser like everyone else.

Santana knew all too well that thirty seconds could drastically alter the course of a person’s life.  She just never expected it to. 

Not like this, at least. 

* * *

It had been a busy day at the diner. Kurt was off at NYADA, parading himself around in front of some ‘special guest’ choreographer whose name Santana had been way too tired to retain when her roommate had ambushed her the night before, after a twelve-hour shift, to announce that he’d been selected for the exclusive workshop. Santana was proud of Kurt, but that was none of his business.  Rachel, on the other hand, had missed out on the opportunity; too distracted by her upcoming Funny Girl debut to pay much attention to her classes anymore. Oh, and then there was the whole Finn thing. But the trio had silently agreed not to talk about that anymore.

Of course, that didn’t stop the dwarf from acting like an absolute martyr over not being selected for the class. She’d spent their entire shift moping about it. For the most part, Santana had grown to tolerate Rachel lately. They were similar in so many ways. Both ambitious, both _uber_ talented and bound for stardom one day. Hell, on some nights in the loft when they were feeling particularly vulnerable and open with each other about their hopes, dreams and insecurities, Santana may even go so far as to say she had become _friends_ with Rachel Berry.

But right now, she was about ready to push Rachel Berry off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic the minute their shift was over. 

“You’re scowling again,” Dani winked as she sauntered by with a tray of dirty dishes, en-route to the kitchen. Santana couldn’t help but smile, even if it had to be accompanied by her signature eye-roll (which it was). 

Because Dani, sweet, _caring_ Dani, had found herself unexpectedly thrown into the emotionally volatile powder keg that was the Bushwick loft when it’s three inhabitants had received a phone call during dinner one night to advise them that their fellow Lima alumni member and former Glee club co-captain, Finn Hudson, was dead. 

Kurt had fled the apartment immediately, leaving Santana to literally catch Rachel as she crumbled to the floor; struck down by the realisation that her world would never be the same again without him in it. Santana, too consumed by the need to help Berry, barely began to process the news for herself until at least a week later; let alone explain what any of it meant to _Dani_. Because right now, Berry needed her. _Stupid_ Berry, who had done nothing but speak of happy endings with Lumps the Clown since she was sixteen, absolutely did not deserve to lose that fantasy now. Not like this.

And in that moment Santana couldn’t help but think how she might’ve reacted in Rachel’s place. If it had been B-

No. She had stopped herself immediately. Because it hadn’t been. 

Brittany was long gone, safely wrapped up in a world of numbers and other complex mathematical whatevers…

She hadn’t even attended Finn’s memorial.

But Dani? Dani had been an absolute saint, despite being a relatively new person in her life at the time. She’d booked flights to Lima for all three of them, packed their bags, called a cab to the airport. She’d even gone out looking for Kurt, that night after the phone call, and talked him into going back to the apartment to be with his friends, his _family,_ when they all needed each other. And then after all that, Dani had possessed enough emotional awareness to leave them be; knowing full well this wasn’t where she needed to be. That moment was for them and them alone. 

Yes, Santana thought. Dani was perfect. But the crash of plates against the countertop served as enough reminder, that life right now? Not quite as perfect…

“I’m not scowling. This is just my face,” Santana leant against the bar, smirking at her girlfriend as she returned from the kitchen. 

“No, your usual face is cute. That,” Dani pointed, “is your face when you’re trying to work out how not to spit out whatever soul-destroying comment just popped up in your head. You’ve been wearing it around Rachel for weeks now,” At some point, her fingers had found themselves entwined with Santana’s on the bench (which Santana didn’t mind at all). 

“Yeah, well. My sources tell me that being a cold-hearted bitch to someone who just tragically lost the love of their life is poor form. Apparently you have to wait a few weeks.” Santana squeezed Dani’s hand as she said it, averting her gaze slightly. They never acknowledged how much Finn’s death had actually affected Santana too. But Dani knew. 

“My shift just finished,” she sighed, reluctantly separating herself from Santana, “want me to wait?”

The Latina straightened, shaking her head and nodding towards her roommate, who was now draped across an empty table pretending to clean it. “Yentl and I have still got two hours left. I’ll call you later?”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Dani beamed. The girls drifted toward each other, lips landing in a quick goodbye peck. The diner was basically empty. So much so, that Santana hadn’t realised they were being observed at the time. It wasn’t until Dani left that the gruff male voice had piped up from behind her to throw in his two cents.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that kinda’ girl on girl stuff shouldn’t be done out in public? It’s disgusting,” he muttered from underneath his baseball cap. The man spoke with a Southern drawl Santana couldn’t quite place. He eyed her with such vitriol that she wanted to march over and rip those green orbs right out of his skull with her bare hands. 

“So are those denim pants, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped you from forcing the rest of us to see you wearing them sir,” she quipped with a tight-lipped smile. Gunther would be furious if he heard her speaking to a customer that way, but she didn’t care. He wasn’t here. 

The man smirked at her from his booth, before deliberately tipping over his drink. Santana could do nothing except watch, aghast, as a full glass of Coca Cola spilled all over the table and onto the floor in front of her. 

“Whoops,” he shrugged, standing up and sliding out of the chair. He stalked towards her, not stopping until they were less than a few inches away from each other. Santana wasn’t about to let him win, so she stood her ground. Even if it meant breathing in his awful, sweat-soaked stench in the process. “You better get that cleaned up, don’t you think?” he sneered. 

“Absolutely. Excuse me,” Santana shifted away from him, moving toward the table. She let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding when the swing of the diner doors signalled he had finally exited the establishment a few moments later.

“Who was that?” Rachel asked, appearing behind Santana from out of nowhere and causing her to fall back against the sticky table. 

“Dammit Rachel,” she grimaced, wiping some of the coke from her dress in an attempt to hide how rattled she had been by the encounter. Rachel, though, was focused entirely on the exit with an expression clouding her features that Santana couldn’t quite decipher yet. It’d been happening more and more lately, since Finn…

Santana caught her troubled friend by the arm, plastering on a reassuring smile. “It was just some homophobic creep. Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

Thirty seconds. 

Then everything had changed.


	2. Let Me Photograph You in this Light (Santana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana and Rachel start to make plans.

When Santana was a little girl, she’d often dreamed about what her life would look like when she was old enough to stop having to do as she was told by stupid adults who thought they knew better than her. 

‘Always be kind,’ her mother had said…

She cultivated a reputation that led to her being perceived as the biggest bitch at McKinley High.

‘When you meet the man of your dreams, marry him before someone else does,’ her Abuela had commanded… 

She fell in love with Brittany and got disowned by the woman who had been planning her wedding since she was two years old. 

_‘_ Go to college, get a degree,’Coach Sylvester had suggested as she handed her a free ride to a university with the best cheerleading program in the country…

She dropped out during her first semester and got a job as a waitress in New York. 

Santana wasn’t great at listening to others. 

She sometimes wondered if that got her into more trouble than it was worth.

* * *

It had been three nights since the incident at the diner and Santana was wide awake in bed. Rachel kicks in her sleep. She’d made this unfortunate discovery the night after Finn died, when she and Kurt came to their ‘agreement.’

The ‘agreement’ was a set of rules the pair had devised regarding who, when and what would be handled by each of them in regard to Rachel. It was a simple system that allowed them to be there for their friend, whilst also giving them their own space to grieve. Ultimately though, it was to avoid any instance wherein Rachel and Santana might be likely to fall into old habits by verbally attacking each other when emotions surrounding their shared loss were running particularly high. 

Kurt took the day shift. Because he was better at navigating the kinds of heavy conversations Santana knew would cause her to lash out at Rachel for being her annoying self. Particularly, if they ventured anywhere near the fact that she _may_ have occasionally played a somewhat antagonistic role towards ‘Finchel' during their high school years. Santana, on the other hand, had proven far more adept than a grumpy, sleep-deprived Kurt at comforting Rachel when she woke from a nightmare, or when she was so grief-stricken that her tears kept her from being able to sleep at all. The frequency of such events meant that everyone had eventually agreed Santana would temporarily move into Rachel’s room instead of sleeping on the couch. The pair wound up in there together every night, whispering words to one another that they would never, _ever_ admit to having said when the sun rose the next morning. 

And yes, that meant they slept together now. But not like that. Gross. The point was: Rachel kicks in her sleep.

Rolling onto her side, Santana released a heavy sigh. What she wasn’t expecting though, was to see Rachel wide awake and staring back at her with those beady little eyes of hers. She jumped several inches backward in surprise. 

“Holy fuck Rachel, what the hell are you doing?” Santana rolled to face the ceiling again, annoyed at her roommate for once again proving what a creep she could be. “How long have you been awake?”

Rachel barely acknowledged the question, instead tugging at Santana’s shoulder until the other girl rolled back to face her. Santana was never sure what made her more annoyed: the fact that the two of them were being so intimate with each other; or that it had become such a common occurrence that she’d actually grown used to it now. Berry intwined their fingers _(ew)_ and caught her gaze with that glassy look of hers _(ugh)_.

“He was there again tonight,” she whispered, twisting her pinkie around Santana’s in a familiar way that she had absolutely _no_ right to do because it was way too much like… Santana shifted on her pillow to look at Rachel properly, accepting that whatever was keeping the annoying Jewish girl from falling asleep and kicking her again wouldn’t be going away until they discussed it. 

“Who?” Santana asked, carefully untangling their pinkies while keeping the rest of their hands intwined so as not to alert Rachel to her sudden discomfort. The hand holding alone would have her high-school self slapping her senseless for becoming such a softie towards _Berry_ , but pinkies… Some things would simply never be okay for them. 

"The man with the baseball cap.”  Rachel sighed, inching closer to Santana until her head was all but resting against the other girl’s left shoulder, “he was asking about you.”

Santana felt her stomach drop. She was pretty certain that Rachel somehow felt it too, or had at least sensed the sudden quickening of her heartbeat given that her head was so fucking close to her chest at the moment, because she closed the gap between them and snuggled into Santana like both of their lives depended on it.

The Latina couldn’t help herself, unsure why the mention of the man had shaken her so much. She latched onto Rachel before finally swallowing, “what did you tell him?”

Those stupid, beady eyes looked back up at her again, waiting a beat before finally putting her out of her misery, “lo siento, no hablo inglés.” 

Rachel smirked as Santana relaxed slightly, laughing into the other girl’s hair and shaking her head in disbelief at the way in which her friend had clumsily stumbled over a string of words that were clearly so foreign to her. 

“You’re such an idiot sometimes, Berry.” 

* * *

Several weeks passed without incident and memories of the strange man were mostly forgotten. Rachel had slowly returned to a newer iteration of her former self; changed by what had happened, but finally finding some semblance of joy in the things she used to. At some point, Santana contemplated whether she might end up back on the couch, but she wasn’t going to bring it up any time soon. That couch was awful. She’d take Rachel’s pointy feet any day. 

Speaking of, the clumsy flippers seemed to be making their way towards the front door (if the heavy thudding echoing from the outside hallway was to be heard correctly). As the door creaked open, Santana looked up from the kitchen table to find a giddy Rachel beaming back at her.

“Let me guess, Target called and they want you to be the brand ambassador for their new line of children’s clothing? Oh no, wait! Quinn’s pregnant, and you’re the father?” Santana teased, prompting little more than an unamused eye-roll from the broadway diva. Because yes, one of the best things about Rachel feeling better these days was that Santana could finally be a little mean to her every now and again. With love, obviously.

“I've decided I want us to go out.” Rachel stated simply. 

Santana hesitantly raised an eyebrow, “could you be slightly more specific than that so I know which direction to steer this conversation in please?” 

“Drinking.”

Oh thank god. 

Santana wasn’t ready to go down _that_ particular road with another best friend. Wait. Fuck. Was Rachel her best friend now? 

“Rachel,” she started, watching Rachel sit down on the chair opposite her, “I’m not sure that’s-”

“I’m ready, Santana,” Rachel cut her off, “Please.”

Santana felt her heart sink at the request. They both knew why this was a big moment. Two days after Finn’s funeral, Rachel had found her way into Santana’s tequila while everyone else was at work. She’d gone missing, causing Santana and Kurt to embark on a frantic search that led them to find her two seconds away from launching herself off the roof of some dingy club in downtown Manhattan, claiming she had ‘figured it all out and knew what to do now.’ 

Part of her wondered whether Rachel had deliberately chosen a moment, while the two of them were alone, to ask this question. It wasn’t even 8pm yet, this was supposed to be Kurt’s job. Rachel wasn’t stupid - she knew about the agreement. She also knew that one of the lesser-known reasons Santana wasn’t allowed to do daylight conversations is because, when she’s not yelling at them, she’s absolutely terrible at saying no to people. _Especially_ if those people are pouting at her with sad doe eyes and probably, genuinely, need (and are ready for) a night out with their friend to feel some sense of normalcy again. 

“Fine,” she huffed, prompting Rachel to jump out of her chair and bound excitedly towards her, “but I pick the venue, it’s a three drink _maximum_ for both of us and we bring Lady Hummel to supervise.” 

“Agreed!” Rachel squealed at her, racing off to their room and yelling a casual, “Friday night!” over her shoulder. Santana rolled her eyes, then picked up her phone to text Kurt a quick apology message. He was going to be furious. 

* * *

Santana wasn’t great at listening to others. 

It definitely got her into more trouble than it was worth.


	3. In the Grip of a Hurricane (Rachel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel still can't handle her alcohol.

Rachel Berry was having one hell of a year. 

First, her fiancé had shattered her heart into a million pieces so she could pursue her New York dreams at NYADA.

Where she had met Brody, who was everything Finn wasn’t in the best way possible.

Then, Santana had rudely moved into their apartment without permission, and found out about Rachel’s pregnancy scare. But they somehow became friends because of it, which was… 

Unexpectedly sweet? 

Except Santana started harassing Brody, and she kicked her out. But she ended up letting her moving back in anyway, because, like always; Santana was right. 

Brody was a Gigolo. Rachel Berry had been _sleeping_ with a Gigolo. 

And Finn beat him up, then left town without even so much as stopping by for dinner. 

But that was ok too. Because she somehow got a hardcore friend out of it all (Santana). 

Which was lucky, in hindsight.

Because Finn died. 

And Rachel thinks, if not for Santana, that she very might well have followed him. 

So, after all that, Rachel Berry _knows_ she deserved a good night out where she could fall off the wagon, just for a little while.

Because Santana would be there to catch her. 

* * *

It was just after 11pm by the time they made it to the bar. Santana had chosen it, so naturally it was a suave joint that somehow balanced the class of an underground speakeasy with the energy of a downtown dance club. 

It was absolutely perfect for Rachel’s first night back out on the town. 

“Ladies, I’m serious,” Kurt warned, as the three of them settled into a booth by the dance floor, “if we are not outta here by 1am _sharp_ , I will call the police and have you both arrested to ensure your safety.”

“Arrested for _what_ , Lady Hummel?” Santana huffed, casually sipping her cosmopolitan, “the only one committing a crime here tonight is you, by subjecting our eyes to that godawful sweater vest.”

Rachel giggled. Kurt looked fine, but Santana always knew which of a person’s weak spots to hit in order to kill a conversation. For once, Rachel was actually grateful her sharp-tongued roommate/maybe-new-best-friend had possessed such a talent. She loved Kurt, but could do without his judgement for one night.

Kurt gasped, pointing a finger across the table. “Santana Lopez, you and I both know that the only one of us who ever commits any crimes against fashion in our apartment is Rachel, but we’re not allowed to be mean to her right now so I have _no_ acceptable retort.”

As truly marvellous as her acting skills were, there was nothing Rachel could’ve done in that moment to hide the brief hurt she felt at Kurt’s comment, even if they all knew it was true. Santana was already one step ahead of her. 

“Whatever, Mr Schue,” she winked at Rachel while their other roommate sunk into his seat in defeat. 

Rachel held her glass out to the pair, a huge toothy smile plastered on her face. They raised their glasses to meet her. “I just wanted to say thank you to you both,” she started, “I know it’s not been easy to live with me over these last couple of months.”

“I’m sorry,” Santana had interjected, “was it supposed to have been easy _before_ that?”

“Santana!” Kurt groaned, despite everyone knowing it had been a joke. 

“Anyway,” Rachel continued, grabbing Santana’s hand as the Latina chuckled to herself, “despite our many, _many_ differences, I am truly grateful to have you both in my life… And if you ever try to leave me I’m locking the door to our apartment so you’ll be stuck in there forever, so don’t even try it okay?”

“Tone it down, Berry.” Santana rolled her eyes, but not before lightly squeezing the hand that was still holding onto hers. The significance of the moment wasn’t lost on any of them. 

“Okay ladies,” Kurt grinned, “The fun police don’t arrive until after midnight so how about we get this party started?!”

* * *

Rachel didn’t remember much else after that. Santana had been by her side most of the night, as the room around them gradually learnt how to spin on it’s own. A neat trick, she thought. All rooms should try it more often. Then rooms might be a bit more fun to be in, especially the boring ones. Like doctor’s waiting rooms and hallways…

Kurt had been dancing with a tall blonde guy, causing Santana to whoop and whistle at them in a show of support, despite the action serving to embarrass him completely like only a surrogate big sister could. Rachel and Santana had been dancing together for a while, but they came back to the booth when Rachel got tired. Kurt followed soon after. Rachel wondered if they might’ve made a pact to stick together all night and keep an eye on her.

No, she _knew_ they had done exactly that. 

Two drinks had turned into three, which Santana not-so-politely reminded her was their agreed limit for the night. Rachel had pouted, but eventually agreed to sit still and mind their drinks while Santana ducked to the bathroom. Across from her, Kurt was suddenly far too caught up in something on his phone to pay attention to anything else. 

She thinks it might’ve been around that time that he’d approached them. There was something oddly familiar about that Southern drawl, the confident swagger he possessed as he leaned over her and asked if she was having a good night. Of course, Rachel replied that she was indeed having a good night. Then she launched into perhaps a somewhat _too_ elaborate spiel about the terrible year she’d had and how her friend, Kurt (who waved nonchalantly, barely looking up), and her other friend, Santana (who was in the bathroom, she had explained) were the best people she had ever met. Perhaps she had carried on a _little_ bit longer about Santana in particular. But she was drunk, okay?

“Santana sounds like one very special lady,” he had nodded, shifting into Santana’s empty seat. “The two of you looked pretty cosy earlier on. It was hot.” 

Rachel still didn’t remember much from that night. But she remembered her skin crawling as he sat there, looking at her with those empty eyes of his. Slowly, he had leaned towards her, running his finger teasingly along one of the near-empty glasses on the table. There was something so eerily familiar about him, but Rachel couldn’t place it. All she knew is she wanted him gone.

“Kurt,” she started. The panic in her voice must’ve been enough, because her friend immediately dropped his phone and looked up.

“I think you need to leave,” he barked firmly, alerting enough bystanders to pressure the strange man into disappearing. By the time Santana had returned from the bathroom, Rachel had pretty much forgotten about him.

Okay. If Rachel was to be completely honest with herself, she would admit that _maybe_ she had snuck in a few more than three drinks while her friends had been distracted throughout the night. So much so, that it really shouldn’t have been surprising when Kurt and Santana had been forced to carry her out to a cab just before 1am. 

She remembered her legs feeling like cinderblocks. Kurt felt like a pine tree but Santana felt like a comfy pillow, then suddenly Kurt _was_ a pine tree and Santana _was_ a comfy pillow. In hindsight, she suspected this might have had something to do with their individual attitudes towards her drunkenness at the time. Plus, she thinks Santana was swaying a little bit too. They were like two little palm trees, swaying in the breeze. No wait, _Kurt_ was a tree. Santana was a pillow.

She remembered Kurt yelling at her, while Santana mumbled something like, “Shit. I think she left her phone inside. Wait here,” or,“Ship. I need shiver and a Roman’s hide. Stay clear.” She hadn’t been certain which one it was at the time. 

She remembered falling to the ground a few moments later because Kurt was a pine tree and he was too prickly and it hurt her face. And then she was upset, because Santana wasn’t there with her comfy pillows to catch her this time.

She should’ve known something was wrong when the minutes passed, but no one ever came back with comfy pillows to catch her. 

Why hadn’t Santana been there to catch her?


	4. In her shadow, is it me you see? (Rachel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel is hungover, Santana is missing and Quinn comes to visit.

Rachel and Santana had never been friends. Not really. 

For every sweet moment they might’ve shared together over the last few years, Rachel could easily think of ten awful ones. 

_Did_ _anyone ever tell you you look like one of the bait girls from To Catch a Predator?_

_Santana told me never to speak alone with you cause you’d try to steal all of my gold._

_Your moustache is thicker than a middle-eastern dictator._

_Yes, you should move to Israel._

The simple fact was, no matter how much they’d grown this year, Santana had gone out of her way to make Rachel’s life a living hell throughout high school. She was her ghost. The one, who, deep down, would always be the voice in the back of her head telling her she wasn’t good enough.

_Dwarf._

_Hobbit._

_We all just pretend to like you._

Six months ago Rachel Berry would have gladly never seen or spoken to Santana Lopez ever again. 

It was somewhat cruel, then, that the universe had decided to put her in a situation where she would now be unable to sleep without knowing that the sharp-tongued former Cheerios captain was lying next to her. 

Rachel first came to this startling revelation several hours after their night out had ended, when she regained consciousness only to be struck down by the painful beginnings of what she could only imagine would become the world’s worst hangover.

It was 4am and the space beside her was empty.

Where the hell was Santana?

* * *

The cold water felt like needles against her skin, but Rachel forced herself into the shower anyway. She had waited in bed for what seemed like an eternity before finally realising that Santana was nowhere to be found. She had no idea where the girl was, and no clue whatsoever as to how she might find her.

What she _did_ know was that she needed to shower. So that was step one. 

Gradually, Rachel felt her muscles relax as the hot water turned on. It was an old apartment, so it sometimes took a while for certain things to kick in. Usually, the trio would busy themselves with other things while they waited for the shower to work properly. For Rachel, it involved reading the latest broadway gossip online. For Santana, it would be working her way through an extensive skincare regime or occasionally jumping into one of those two minute mini-workouts which kept her looking annoyingly trim at all times. Kurt simply liked to clip the bonsai tree in the bathroom window, which he would never admit he had bought for the specific purpose of keeping himself occupied for this very occasion. 

Tonight though, Rachel hadn’t been alert enough to remember to wait. But the cold water might’ve done some good, as she felt herself slowly returning to her senses. God, she thought. It’d been so long since she’d had anything to drink that it felt like every inch of her body was now actively rebelling against her for having gone too hard, too soon. Why hadn’t she stuck to Santana’s three drink limit?

Turning the faucet off, Rachel slumped out of the shower and rolled herself into her towel. She stopped at the mirror to stare at her own reflection, then immediately regretted it. She looked awful. 

It wasn’t until she heard the creak of the bathroom door opening that she was finally startled her out of her semi-drunken stupor enough to look at the figure in the doorway. 

Santana. 

Dishevelled, and still dressed from the night before.

She marched in, her eyes empty. Cold, even. She didn’t look at Rachel as she started undressing herself. 

“Where have you been?” Rachel asked. 

Santana didn’t say a word. She reminded Rachel of one of those zombies from a B-grade horror movie. Her movements were laboured, mechanical. A stripper zombie, maybe, given that she still seemed determined to take off her clothes despite having a captive audience.

“Santana,” she tried again, “why are you…”

She watched as Santana tore her dress off, leaving herself in only a bra and boxer briefs. Wait… Were those? Rachel couldn’t help herself. 

“Why are you wearing Quinn’s underwear?”

The Latina made eye contact with her for the first time since she’d entered the bathroom. But when Rachel caught sight of the girl’s uncharacteristically cold, black eyes she almost wished they’d never looked up at her at all. 

“How do you know it’s Quinn’s underwear?” 

Rachel should’ve known better. 

They stood opposite one another, each waiting for the other to strike. It was not unlike their long-forgotten days at McKinley actually. Except, of course, that this time Rachel was completely naked under her towel and Santana, for some inexplicable reason, was wearing _Quinn Fabray’s_ underwear.

Rachel wondered what would happen if, for once in her life, she stood her ground against Santana. Would they stay here forever? Glaring at each other, waiting for the other to finally concede defeat? Apparently, Rachel didn’t have to wonder for long. Because Santana, in an unprecedented and highly uncharacteristic move, had already given up.

“Excuse me,” she sighed, traipsing toward the shower, “it’s been a really long night.” 

The shower curtain snapped shut in Rachel’s face, then Santana tossed her bra and panties (correction: _Quinn’s_ bra and panties) out onto the floor as the water, once again, began to run cold.

Rachel knew she was still probably a bit drunk, but she had absolutely no idea what had just happened. 

* * *

Quinn was in their living room, trading sharply whispered words with a frantic Kurt. Rachel crept towards them, straining to hear what they were saying in the hopes of gleaning _some_ sort of insight into what was going on and why Santana had been swapped out with a mindless drone who liked to take cold showers and couldn’t look her in the eye. 

There was also no reasonable explanation as to why Quinn would be in their New York apartment at 5am in the morning when she lived in New Haven and Yale’s semester was well underway. Rachel was doing her absolute best not to immediately assume the worst. 

“What’s going on?” she asked, startling the both of them into turning around towards her. 

“Rachel,” Quinn smiled pleasantly, in that textbook house-wifey way that only Quinn Fabray could master, “You’re… naked.”

Knowing a distraction when she saw one, Rachel stood her ground despite being increasingly uncomfortable with the fact that the night had led her to stand off against not one but _two_ of her former high school bullies in little more than a bath towel. She cleared her throat. 

“Not that I’m not thrilled to see you but, why are you here Quinn? And why is Santana wearing your underwear?” 

Okay. Rachel was definitely still drunk, but it had just slipped out. She wasn’t sure if Kurt or Quinn looked more disturbed by the question. They both spun around to look at each other like deer in traffic lights, before Kurt finally recovered enough to formulate a response. 

“Quinn ran into Santana at the club. It’s a long story, but she’s crashing at ours tonight,” he explained calmly.

Oh, Rachel had thought. That made sense, sort of. Not really. She still had the incredibly strong suspicion that everyone in this apartment was in on some top secret information and had decided to keep it from her so they could all laugh about it behind her back. But these people were her friends now, so they wouldn’t still do that… would they? Rachel recalled her run-in with Santana in the bathroom only moments before. Her friend had been an empty shell of her former self. No, this wasn’t a joke. Something was wrong. 

Another moment passed before she realised Quinn and Kurt were both staring at her, presumably trying to gauge her reaction towards the news of their unexpected house guest. So Rachel Berry did what what Rachel Berry does best. She put on a show.

“Oh that’s wonderful!” she beamed, “Kurt have you made up the couch yet? Of course under normal circumstances I’d offer to share my bed Quinn but Santana is actually…”

“I can take the couch,” a quiet voice interrupted from behind her. 

Santana. 

The Latina girl looked pale, her hair hanging in tangled, wet knots against her shoulders. Rachel wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. She’d never seen Santana look anything less than perfect, (and she literally sleeps with her every night). Rachel watched as Quinn approached the other girl carefully like she was some sort of trapped, feral animal in need of rescuing. 

Santana, for her part, did little to move away from Quinn as the taller girl enveloped her in a warm hug. But she didn’t reciprocate. She just stood there, frozen. It left Rachel wondering _why_ exactly Quinn Fabray was standing in her living room at 5am in the morning hugging _her_ best friend while she stood on the outskirts in a towel with absolutely no insight into what had occurred. She really needed to get changed. 

“Actually,” Quinn started, “if there’s any way for both of us to sleep in the living room I’d be really grateful for that.” She still hadn’t let go of Santana but her head was turned to face Kurt, who shook his head.

“Don’t be silly,” he smiled, “You guys can take my room. I’ll just go get it tidied up.”

As Kurt left, Rachel watched the pair. Once upon a time, the two of them had instilled fear in the hearts of anyone outside their exclusive inner circle and Rachel Berry had been their prime target. Now, as Quinn towered over her fellow former cheerleader, Santana only seemed to be getting smaller. She hadn’t even made a quip about sleeping in Kurt’s bedroom. Santana hated Kurt’s bedroom. 

Quinn took Santana’s hand and tried to coax some sort of response out of her. Santana was whispering something over and over again that Rachel couldn’t quite hear, and suddenly she felt like she was intruding on an intensely private moment between the pair. Pushing the distinct pang of jealousy aside, Rachel cleared her throat again. Quinn was the only one to look over at her.

“I’m going to change and head back to bed. It’s good to see you Quinn.”

The blonde smiled politely back at her, which Rachel took as her cue to leave. She spared one last glance in Santana’s direction, her stomach dropping when she noticed the girl’s eyes were following her all the way until she reached the curtain that was separating her bedroom from the rest of the apartment. There was an uncertainty in those brown orbs that Rachel had never seen before. It was unsettling. 

Six months ago Rachel Berry would have gladly never seen or spoken to Santana Lopez ever again. A year ago, she would’ve said the same about Quinn Fabray. 

Now, hidden behind the curtain, listening as whispers became sobs and quiet mutters of attempted reassurance transformed into sharp jibes, Rachel felt her earlier jealousy toward the pair growing into something closer to concern. Because Quinn and Santana were like fire and gasoline, and despite their immense love for each other she knew it would only be a matter of time before whatever had happened between them tonight led to a fiery explosion. The ‘Unholy Trinity,’ as they liked to call themselves, were a _trinity_ for a reason. They balanced each other out. 

So, with absolutely no context on what had occurred tonight or why two of her former high school tormentors were currently crying together in her kitchen, Rachel Berry surmised that there was only one reasonable course of action in order to avoid an eventual altercation between the pair from which she was certain the blissful oasis that was their cosy Bushwick loft may _never_ recover. 

She called Brittany.


	5. In the Morning, I'll Say Goodbye Again (Quinn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn gets an unexpected late night phone call from the girl she loves to hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - this chapter has vague mentions of rape/non-con. I won't be going into any sort of graphic detail in this story, but some may still find it triggering. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Quinn liked to read. 

She liked to read after Cheerios practice, even when Coach Sylvester had worked them so hard her hands quivered whilst holding the pages. 

She liked to read at parties when Santana and Brittany were off hooking up in bathrooms (with other people, or each other).

Reading had become her safe place when she got pregnant. She could jump into new worlds every day. Worlds where her parents, Santana, Brittany and the rest of the Cheerios team hadn’t turned against her. 

After the car accident, Santana had been there to help her. And if she was there, then Brittany was there too. In the early days when Quinn was in too much pain to sleep, Brittany would put a movie on in the living room and they’d all stay together until the sun came up. Still, Quinn preferred to read. So Santana helped turn the pages.

Reading was good. 

Reading is what got her into Yale.

It’s what set her apart from people like Santana, who were undeniably smart but not interested in putting their intelligence to good use. 

Quinn could quote classic literature from memory, and took great pride in doing so.

She liked to hold that over Santana. That she was, by academic standards, _smarter_ than her.

It had led to a great number of fights between them over the years. Their last one was memorable, to say the least.

It started with a slap.

Then a New York shopping trip where each of them refused to apologise. 

Culminating in a wedding where they had fucked each other senseless until all the anger was gone.

Santana was a bitch. That much, Quinn knew. 

But maybe that was why they worked so well together. 

“ _A good friend will always stab you in the front” - Oscar Wilde_

* * *

It was just before 2am when she had called. Quinn groaned, opening one eye to find out who in the world could _possibly_ be interrupting her sleep at this hour. The Yale student would ritualistically switch her phone to Do Not Disturb after 10pm each night to ensure she was able to maintain a consistent sleep schedule so as not to interfere with any of her studies. The only calls allowed through were from those she knew would be unlikely to ever call her late at night unless it was a real emergency.

Her mother. 

Shelby.

Santana. 

As such, there was an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach as she reached to grab the phone from her nightstand. Had something happened to Beth? Was her mother okay? Her father? What about- 

She caught herself, staring down at the icon that was flashing on her phone. The photo had been taken after they won Nationals last year. They had been standing next to each other, awaiting the results. When first place was announced, Santana had been so overcome with excitement that she’d launched herself at Quinn, who had no choice other than to catch the fiery Latina in an elated hug. Emma Pillsbury caught the moment on camera, and the two girls had both immediately set it as each other’s contact photos because it was undoubtedly the nicest photo they had ever taken together. 

Not that there were many to choose from.

Her friendship with Santana was complicated, at best. 

That’s how she _knew_ Santana wouldn’t be calling her at this hour unless she had a very good reason. And that terrified her. 

“Santana?” Quinn asked groggily. The other end of the line was eerily quiet. Maybe she’d been pocket dialled, “Santana, are you there?” 

Silence. Quinn was just about to hang up when she finally heard it. A voice far too small to be her headstrong best-frenemy, but her’s nonetheless. 

“Can you come pick me up?” 

* * *

She arrived at the hospital slightly after 3am, vaguely aware that the cab fare had just amounted to the equivalent of half her fortnightly income. But it didn’t matter. She had to find…

“Excuse me,” Quinn grabbed the arm of the nearest nurse, “I’m looking for Santana Lopez.”

The nurse barely looked up from her clipboard, pointing over Quinn’s shoulder instead. “Reception desk is down the hall to the right.”

Quinn spun on her axis and marched down the hallway, nearly mowing a small boy with a broken arm down in the process. But she didn’t care. He’d recover. 

Stopping at the desk, Quinn threw her bag onto the countertop. She hadn’t been sure what state she was going to find Santana in, so she brought supplies. The attending nurse smiled politely, looking up from her computer screen. “How can I help you?” 

“I’m looking for Santana Lopez.” she tried again. 

The nurse’s expression clouded immediately. Quinn tried not to projectile vomit all over the desk while she anxiously awaited some sort of helpful response. 

“Are you family?” the nurse had asked. 

“I’m her sister.” Quinn hadn’t missed a beat. What? It could’ve been true. If her Dad had married a Latina or her Mom had… not the point. 

She followed the nurse as the woman led her down another narrow hallway into the emergency room. The pit housed a sea of trundle beds, each separated by curtains. Quinn felt like she’d stepped into a scene from Grey’s Anatomy. She contemplated that each of these people had a story, and wondered exactly how many of them had found themselves in some equally tragic circumstances as her own here tonight. She was so lost in thought that she had crashed into the back of the nurse when they finally stopped at one of the curtains. 

Quinn didn’t even thank the nurse before barging past her to get inside. 

There was a lot to take in.

On the left, two police officers. One was scrawling notes into a pad while the other stood with his arms crossed facing the bed where Santana was sitting. The girl looked even worse than the time Lauren Zizses had thrown her into a locker at school. Her makeup was ruined, her hair tangled in knots. Remarkably, her dress was in tact but her shoes were nowhere to be seen. Santana still carried herself with the same arrogant air of defiance that she always had. For once though, it didn’t seem to be fooling anyone. 

Quinn almost wanted to laugh. 

She wasn’t entirely sure why. 

The officers looked over at Quinn, regarding her briefly before turning back to Santana who hadn’t even acknowledged her presence yet. She was swaying back and forth against the hospital bed, toying with her fingers in her lap.

It was the taller one, without the notepad, who eventually spoke to her. His voice sounded like a broken trombone, “I think we’re done here for tonight. We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.” 

Neither Santana or Quinn responded to the officers as they quickly excused themselves from the small, sectioned-off corner of the emergency ward. As the curtain closed, Quinn let out the breath she’d been holding since she arrived.

“Are you okay?” she asked, rushing over to Santana and dropping her bag on the floor between them.

Santana hadn’t responded to her question at first, so the two of them simply waited opposite each other. She was looking up at the blonde, her eyes hazy and vacant. Quinn wasn’t sure whether it was because of the drugs the doctor had prescribed or… 

Eventually, Santana had tugged at her hand, squeezing it tentatively. Her voice was hoarse, but clearer than it had been on the phone earlier. Quinn felt she was gradually edging closer to the Santana she knew, even if the girl’s eyes still betrayed her. 

“He tore my underwear,” she whispered, like it was a secret, “Did you bring any?” 

Quinn felt her heart shatter.


	6. A Room is Still a Room (Quinn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn tries to be there for Santana, even if she's not sure how.

Quinn and Santana have always had a tenuous friendship.

Nothing was more checkered than their dealings with men. 

Santana had dated Noah Puckerman, Quinn had his baby.

Quinn had dated Finn Hudson, Santana took his virginity.

Quinn cheated on Sam Evans, Santana swept in before anyone even knew it was over.

If Santana hadn’t discovered her sexuality, Quinn wondered whether they might still be engaging in petty arguments over mediocre men who meant nothing to them. 

Coming out hadn’t exactly stopped Santana from quibbling with her over the other gender anyway.

_Twitter update! Quinn is all excited about another guy defining her life._

She was right. 

Quinn supposed, for the first time in their lives she and Santana had discovered a man they would not be fighting over.

How awful the universe was to have introduced him in such a way. 

_“Man is the cruelest animal” - Friedrich Nietzsche_

* * *

The drive back to the Bushwick loft was quiet. Quinn almost wished she’d brought a book. 

After over an hour of waiting together in the emergency ward, Santana had become coherent enough for the doctors to feel comfortable discharging her. She had been treated for some physical injuries as well, but all in all they were informed it hadn’t been as bad as it could’ve been (Quinn didn’t even want to think about what that meant). The girls left without needing to be told twice. Both of them hated hospitals, for various reasons. 

They hadn’t spoken a word to each other since Quinn had helped Santana into her new underwear. The pair weren’t exactly known for their communication skills at the best of times. And, this was _not_ the best of times. 

At some stage, Quinn had found herself tucked under Santana on the rickety hospital bed as the girl burrowed her way into her chest. Quinn cradled her, resting her cheek against the side of the other girl’s forehead. They had always been comfortable getting physical with one another (whether it be slapping, or otherwise). Quinn was grateful she could at least offer her that right now, even if this particular position felt foreign to her.

New York was slowly starting to come to life as the cab made its way through the inner city streets. Santana had her head against the window, staring at the sky as if nothing else existed. Quinn had texted Kurt to let him know what happened, so as a result was currently fielding an overabundance of annoying questions from him to which she barely had any answers herself. 

_Kurt: Don’t tell Rachel._

It angered her a bit that Rachel had been his first priority in all of this. No _wonder_ Santana had called her. The two roommates wouldn’t know how to care about Santana Lopez if they were given an instruction manual written by the world’s leading expert on such a topic. 

Speaking of, should she call…?

No. She wasn't entirely sure where things stood between Santana and the _other_ blonde member of the Unholy Trinity right now, but last she heard the girl was on her way to MIT and Santana had finally moved on with some blonde chick named Dani who looked and sounded vaguely like Demi Lovato. Only someone with absolutely no emotional intelligence whatsoever would be foolish enough to involve Brittany in this, without Santana’s express permission to do so. Quinn knew better than that. 

Distracted by Kurt’s incessant texting, she thought she’d imagined the faint noise coming from the other side of the cab. But then it got louder, and louder. Quinn looked over at the Latina girl and almost couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Even if, in hindsight, it made total sense. 

Santana was laughing. 

Assuming it to be some sort of stress response, Quinn tapped her on the shoulder. The manoeuvre only served to encourage Santana, and she turned to face her while erupting into an even louder, belly-aching cackle. All Quinn could think to do was smile politely at the absurdity of the situation. Santana, from _Lima-Heights Adjacent_ , the toughest girl she knew, was laughing in the backseat of the cab on the way home from the hospital because a strange man they’d never met had attacked her and… 

What hope did the rest of them have, if this had happened to _her_ of all people? 

She knew Santana was thinking exactly the same thing. It was the kind of incredibly twisted thought that only the two of them would be capable of having together at a time like this. The girls locked eyes, Santana now clutching her stomach in a desperate attempt to combat the giggles. There were tears trickling down her cheeks, and Quinn wasn’t sure whether it was from laughing or crying. Then Santana fell into the other girl’s side and that tipped the scales completely.

Quinn started laughing too. 

But the moment faded as quickly as it had appeared, when Quinn noticed the movement against her had shifted into something softer. As she looked down, Santana curled into her shoulder; laughter regressing into a silent, aching sob. Quinn wrapped an arm around the other girl’s waist as she felt a wetness beginning to form against the arm of her jacket. The cries grew louder and louder.

All she could do was hold her until they made it home. 

* * *

Quinn wasn’t quite sure what to make of the conversation they’d had with Rachel in the living room, but she was certain things had changed between Santana and the broadway diva since the last time she saw them. The friendship made sense to her, actually. They could both be painfully dramatic when they wanted to be. 

She shifted under the blankets in a huff, trying to find a spot that didn’t feel like something was sticking into her spine. Kurt’s bed was very uncomfortable, and it smelt like lemons. If Santana had been in the mood to comment, she knew the girl would’ve said something in agreement. 

They could hear Rachel pacing next door, whispering to someone in hushed tones. Quinn assumed Kurt was explaining what had happened to her, though she wasn’t entirely sure how much information he was planning on revealing to the girl. He was worried she’d punish herself, given that the only reason Santana got separated from them in the first place was because Rachel had been so intoxicated that she’d left her phone behind in the bar and Santana went back to get it. Something about a three drink promise, he’d said. Quinn was curious as to when exactly the two girls had become close enough to voluntarily go out drinking together. But she had a far bigger, more pressing question that she had forced herself not to ask until the dust had settled on this incredibly long, taxing night. 

Why hadn’t Kurt raised the alarm when Santana went missing?

“I can hear you thinking from here, Q,” Santana mumbled into the mattress, “either _stop_ or start talking before I push your boney ass out of this bed.”

“Oh look, someone got her bitch back.” It was basically a reflex for Quinn at this point, trading barbs with Santana like they had their own special language. 

Santana turned to face Quinn, her chest remaining pressed down against the mattress. She tilted her head, waiting for an answer. 

“I’m angry at Kurt,” Quinn sighed. 

“Why?” 

“Because he left you.” 

The comment sparked something in Santana. She shifted, cuddling into Quinn’s side and tucking her head against her shoulder like they had in the hospital a few hours earlier. “I told him to go,” she sighed. Quinn stiffened in shock, but Santana continued, “I couldn’t find Rachel’s phone anywhere so I texted him and told him to take her home. She was so wasted… I was worried about the two of them waiting out there on the street for me. It’s not like Lady Hummel is strong enough to fight anyone off and Rachel literally couldn’t stand up.” 

Quinn pretended not to notice when Santana shuddered at that last comment. She knew what the other girl was thinking. In all the years she’d known her, Santana had always been ready and willing to fight. She didn’t quite seem sure of that anymore.

“Oh,” Quinn hummed, “Well I’m still angry.” 

Santana lifted her head until she was looking Quinn right in the eye. Their faces were only inches away from each other. It briefly occurred to Quinn that the last time they had been this close was at Mr Schue’s ‘not-wedding.’ She swallowed, remembering how that particular night had ended for the two of them. Santana didn’t seem to have noticed the tension, or maybe she had. 

“Thank you for caring, Quinn. I know that’s not something you’re used to doing.” she whispered with mirth in her eyes. The pair were still hovering dangerously close to each other. Santana’s gaze dropped to her lips, then shifted back up to catch hers. Her fingers had found their way to Quinn’s hand, thumb gently stroking the soft flesh on the inside of Quinn’s wrist. The blonde knew she should stop this. Santana needed a friend right now, not… whatever the two of them were to each other. She felt the other girl’s steady breath against her cheek as their lips inched closer together. But Quinn caught herself just in time, shifting back slightly to give them some much needed distance. 

The Earth-shattering look of dismay on Santana’s face made her regret it instantly.

“Santana,” she warned, “you’re not thinking straight.”

“I haven’t thought _straight_ in like two years, Quinn,” Santana argued. Sarcasm had always been a defence mechanism for her, but Quinn could see right through it. The girl didn’t handle rejection very well, even if she liked to pretend otherwise. 

The two stayed where they were for a while, breathing each other in amid the early morning light. Quinn wasn’t sure how long they lay there, but she thought it might mean something that she hadn’t moved away properly. By this point she had become worried that any sudden movements may cause the other girl to break apart completely.

There was something else Santana wanted to say. A reason why she was acting like this when Quinn knew she had a girlfriend she cared about and no real interest in pursuing a romantic relationship with anyone else. Quinn could see it in the heavy rise and fall of the other girl’s chest. It was as if there was some sort of weight she was desperately trying to offload before it crushed her completely. When it finally came, it was with such impact Quinn was sure the whole of New York had felt it. 

“He’s the last person who touched me,” she confessed, “I can’t fall asleep until he’s not.” 

Quinn gasped softly at the admission. She took Santana’s hand in hers, resuming her earlier position so their faces were nearly touching. In an instant, she felt Santana relax back into her as their eyes locked. 

“Okay. But gently,” she breathed, “you’re injured.” Then, their lips were pressed together. It was a slow accumulation of tangled limbs, duelling tongues and hands that managed to be anywhere and everywhere all at once. Quinn felt Santana take over completely and she knew that was exactly what the other girl needed. Santana rocked in her lap while Quinn’s fingers moved ever so carefully through her folds, avoiding her entrance in fear of aggravating her injuries. Quinn’s lips treaded slowly against Santana’s neck until finally she came with a shudder and a strangled sob. Holding the other girl in a soft embrace, Quinn gently tried to coax her to sleep. 

It was strange; Quinn suddenly felt like an intruder on a private moment in someone else’s life. It was a life she should’ve been little more than a background presence in after graduation but had somehow now become a leading lady; if only for tonight. In high school, Santana had never been vulnerable with anyone except Brittany. The only time anyone else saw a shred of the girl beneath the icy facade was when something serious happened and her emotions were forcibly put on show for all to see. Like when Finn had forced her to sit through a week of lady music to make himself feel better after getting her outed on national television. Is that what Quinn had done here? Had she taken advantage of a situation to see a side of Santana she was always jealous only Brittany ever got to see? 

When Santana finally relaxed in her arms and fell into a peaceful sleep, Quinn realised she had been overthinking it. This hadn’t been about anything other than making sure Santana was okay.

And a few hours later, when she found Santana sleeping peacefully in the bed next to Rachel, Quinn knew she would be. 

She started to think that maybe Santana had it right.

Men _were_ horrible. But women? 

Santana seemed to have enough of those around her to make life worth living. 


	7. Do you Want the Truth or Something Beautiful? (Santana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana and Rachel finally talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - this chapter has a very brief mention of rape/non-con towards the end. Please don't read if you find anything about that triggering. 
> 
> Thanks for all the likes/comments. Hope you enjoy where this is going!

Santana had never found it difficult to tell the truth. 

If anything, she found it difficult to _hold back_ the truth.

She liked to think of it as a special gift. 

_I just try to be really honest with people when I think they suck._

Santana knew most people didn’t understand her, but she was okay with that. Because there was one person who always did, and she was miles better than the rest of those other losers anyway. 

Except, sometimes she barely understood herself. And sometimes her person wasn’t around to help her figure it out.

Like now, when the world was spinning and she didn’t know how to stop it. 

But there were other times too. When she hurt people and didn’t know why. 

Why had she shut Brittany down when she’d asked if they could sing a Melissa Etheridge song and then gone on to sing a different love song with Mercedes instead?

_(Brittany knew why)_

Why had she had bullied Finn so relentlessly that week in Senior year that the stupid oaf’s only comeback was to out her in front of everybody and get her face plastered on television screens all across the state?

( _C’mon, even she didn’t deserve that)_

Why had been such a bitch to everyone in Glee club even though all they’d ever tried to show her was love and acceptance?

_The Dwarf._

_Lady Hummel._

_Girl Chang._

_Trouty Mouth._

_Stretch Marks._

_Squishy Teets (may he rest in peace)._

And, why had she auditioned to be Rachel’s understudy in Funny Girl without telling her?

Okay, that last one was a new development. But it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

* * *

Weeks had passed since the incident at the club. Quinn stayed with them that weekend, then returned to Yale and kindly respected her request to never speak about it again unless Santana instructed otherwise. It was one of the many things Santana loved about her relationship with Quinn; she always knew where the lines were. 

A few times, Kurt had tried to make her have one of those dreaded ‘daytime conversations’ with him about it all. Kind of like the ones he kept having with Rachel in the weeks after Finn’s death, but worse because this time they were about _her_. Obviously, Santana had refused. What life advice did Lady Hummel have to offer that she couldn’t glean from some cheesy 90’s sitcom instead?

That was what Santana had been doing that morning; watching another sitcom. Dani had pointed out to her that she’d been watching more and more of them lately, since _it_ happened. She supposed it had something to do with the fact that there was no better distraction from the deep, aching sense of dread one gets when forced to remember they were violently assaulted in an alleyway than jumping headfirst into the familiar comfort of a Friends re-run. 

Yes, Santana knew they were a distraction.

No, she did not care. 

Being the absolute saint that she was, Dani had understood and simply joined her in front of the TV on their mutual days off. They were watching Ross and Rachel argue about whether they were on a break (Santana said they weren’t, Dani thought they were), when real-life Rachel had dramatically appeared from behind the bedroom curtain like the Wizard of Oz. She tossed a jacket onto Santana’s lap without warning, startling the couple into looking over at her. 

“Berry,” Santana started, “Is there a reason your jacket is in my lap?”

“It’s your jacket, Santana.” Rachel had responded simply, as if that suddenly explained everything. 

“Okay, is there a reason _my_ jacket is in my lap?” Santana rolled her eyes, already growing tired at the prospect of becoming embroiled in yet another one of Rachel’s hair-brained schemes. It was only 10am for god’s sake. 

“They’re auditioning my understudy for Funny Girl today.”

“And?”

“You’re coming to watch them with me.”

There it was. 

At Kurt’s insistence, Santana had never told Rachel what happened at the bar that night. Logically, she agreed with him. Rachel would immediately have blamed herself and the diva wasn’t exactly known for her ability to handle complex emotions very well. It was better for everyone that Rachel stayed emotionally stable, and Santana knew she definitely didn’t have the capacity to pick her back up this time. But it also meant Santana couldn’t tell her friend about it. 

And that really hurt. 

Kurt didn’t quite seem to grasp how cruel it was to have asked Santana to bottle up her own emotions about that night in order to protect a person who hadn’t even been there. So she had mentally struck him off the friend list almost immediately, even if he didn’t know it yet. Santana had simply come to accept the reality that there was a completely backward social hierarchy governing the Bushwick loft. In order of importance it went something like:

  1. Rachel Berry
  2. Kurt Hummel
  3. Blaine Anderson (whenever he came to visit)
  4. Sam Evans (because he also visited once)
  5. The neighbour’s cat, who liked to sit in Santana’s chair sometimes. 
  6. Santana Lopez 



Okay, so her relationship with the Dwarf and Lady Hummel had regressed somewhat since _it_ happened. Santana wasn’t about to apologise. Kurt was forcing her to hide away in her own home, and Rachel was a constant reminder of that. Of course Santana would feel a little resentful towards them. 

Like she said though, Rachel _had_ been one of her closest friends before then. So naturally, the diva suspected something was up and she was determined to figure it out. After Quinn left, Rachel had immediately cornered her and asked what happened. Santana just shrugged and said her drink got spiked, then she ran into Quinn by sheer coincidence. 

She figured half truths were always easier for people to believe than outright lies. 

They both knew Rachel didn’t believe it, but she had pretended for Santana’s sake and left well enough alone. Until two weeks ago, when Rachel appeared in front of Santana on her day off with some random plan that just _happened_ to require the two of them to spend an inordinate amount of time together, away from Kurt. It had happened at least twice a week since then, and it showed no signs of stopping.

That day, it looked like they were headed to Rachel’s understudy auditions.

Yay.

* * *

They had all been terrible.

Every single one of them. 

Santana wanted to throw up in her mouth just watching them prance around on the stage trying, _and failing,_ to imitate Rachel’s imitation of Barbra. The dorky director whose name she couldn’t remember clearly felt the same, as he looked about ready to hurl himself off the scaffolding that was piled up by the side of the stage. 

“I don’t think we even need an understudy,” Rachel had stated plainly from her seat, after their twenty-five-thousandth trainwreck of an audition had finally ended, “Trust me, I never get sick.” 

Santana rolled her eyes and sunk back into the chair as the two continued their debate about the intricacies of showbiz insurance policies. She was _so over this_ and she knew their real day hadn’t even started yet. Because they still had several more auditions to suffer through before Rachel would buy her dinner and interrogate her about the night at the club under the guise of ‘casual conversation.’ 

So she really couldn’t be blamed for what she’d done next. It honestly seemed like the most natural solution to all of their problems; particularly hers (which Santana considered to be the most important problems, because they were hers). 

Slipping a twenty dollar bill to the band, Santana Lopez had marched out of the theatre and re-entered in a glorious reimagining of Rachel’s sophomore year sectionals performance of ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade.” And she killed it. 

The director had offered her the role on the spot.

* * *

Rachel thought she was trying to steal the part.

They’d been fighting about it for six days. 

Kurt tried (and failed) to mediate between the two of them, but ultimately Rachel had gone full Rachel and Santana had gone full Santana. There was no happy ending here.

Rachel moved out, meaning Santana got to lay like a starfish in their bed every night now. It was way comfier than having to be constantly kicked by those stupid hobbit feet.

Six days was also how long it’d been since Santana had gotten a decent night’s sleep. 

A total coincidence, she assumed. 

She saw Rachel every day at rehearsals, and the girl had shown no sign of calming down over Santana’s apparent betrayal. It had offended the Latina that, after all this time, Rachel thought so little of her that she’d assume Santana’s audition was anything more than a desperate attempt to escape having to watch any more of those talentless prospective understudies belt out another Streisand tune. She’d also figured it would be a good chance to flex her vocal and dancing muscles in preparation for the actual stardom she was bound to find off broadway in the very near future. Oh, and the cash. The cash was good. 

But if Rachel thought she was a conniving bitch, then a conniving _bitch_ is what she was going to be. And she’d take this lame-ass Broadway show with her. 

She found the dwarf rifling through her underwear drawer one afternoon while Kurt was off rehearsing with his new band ‘One Three Hill’ (don’t ask). It was one of the gayest things she’d seen Rachel do all year and the girls had been sleeping together for half of it, so…

“What are you doing in my panty drawer, Lezzie?” she had sneered to no one, really. Because Rachel didn’t even flinch, instead muttering something stupid about a scented candle. 

The two stood there staring at each other until finally Rachel mumbled that she missed her. And maybe Santana said it back. Whatever. Maybe she shouldn’t have, because it seemed like that brief moment of kindness really set Rachel off. She dropped the candle onto the countertop and burst into tears.

“I just wish I knew what I’d done,” Berry cried at her, “You were my best friend. Was it something I said? I know I was drunk but I feel like I’d remember if I was mean or…” 

Santana cut her off, “Rachel, no. Stop. We are not doing this.” 

Apparently, they were. “I didn’t want to leave without you, you know. I had a fight with Kurt because he dragged me into the cab but you said you were coming back and I thought we had to wait for you.” 

Santana felt her heart sink into her stomach. She’d buried this conversation so deep inside that it never actually occurred to her they might still end up having it one day. She most certainly hadn’t been prepared to have it _today._

Handing Rachel a tissue, Santana moved to sit on the edge of the bed. She looked down at her shoes; a simple pair of heels. She’d only bought them recently, to replace the ones she’d lost that night. The bed dipped and the sniffling seemed to be a lot closer to her ear than it was before, so she guessed Rachel had finally taken her lead and sat down next to her.

They sat silently for a few minutes longer than they should’ve. Santana couldn’t really work out what to say, but she guessed at some point between now and when she walked through the door earlier, she had actually decided she was going to talk about it.

Progress. 

Sensing her trepidation, Rachel nudged her with her shoulder slightly, “Santana, why was Quinn really here?” 

Santana had never found it difficult to tell the truth. 

Why start now?

“I was raped.”


	8. Keeping the Noise from Breaking Through (Santana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel learns to listen, Santana gets her best friend back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - there are more mentions of rape/non-con in this chapter. Sorry, but Santana has some things to work through.

Santana Lopez and Brittany S. Pierce used to play a game. 

Brittany had invented it during freshman year when she had complained about how boring their dating lives were.

It went something like this:

1\. Pick a colour. 

( _Brittany always chose blue)_

2\. Pick a person.

_(Brittany always chose Santana)_

3\. Make out with that person in a room with walls that were painted the same as the colour you picked.

It wasn’t until sophomore year that Santana realised the game only ever had one result: the two of them together in Brittany’s bedroom. 

People liked to under-estimate Brittany. 

But Santana had always known what the rest of the world was only just starting to figure out.

Brittany S. Pierce was a genius. 

Last time they had spoken, Brittany had been excited because she found out MIT offered a minor in Astronomy. 

The girl had _always_ been fascinated by space.

It was serendipitous, really.

Because Santana was a star. 

She assumed it would only be a matter of time before Brittany re-discovered her. 

* * *

Rachel Berry had been doing laps of the apartment for the last thirteen minutes. Santana was losing track of how many she was up to by now. Seventy six, maybe? The girl hadn’t said a word since Santana’s rather tactless but to-the-point and _incredibly_ personal revelation. It was starting to make her nervous. 

She kind of wanted to run away. 

So she did. 

Apparently though, watching Santana make a frantic beeline for the front door was all Rachel needed to snap out of it. She caught the girl by the arm and trapped her there. Santana did all she could to swallow the emotions that were threatening to bubble to the surface, but it was no use anymore. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle, right? 

She’d expected Rachel to fall apart, or at the very least to launch into some sort of emotionally fraught monologue about how it was _all_ her fault; completely forgetting about the other human in the room with very real feelings who might happen to be suffering more than her. She’d witnessed the broadway diva do it to countless others before. 

But Rachel had surprised her, asking only a simple question. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

It had knocked Santana completely off balance.

“I don’t really know how,” she eventually choked, “it’s all a blur by now anyway.” 

At some point, the two managed to migrate towards the couch where they sat a safe distance apart, not quite facing each other. They didn’t speak. Santana was surprised to discover that Rachel was even capable of being this quiet. She’d assumed her loudness was a physical condition. 

“It just doesn’t make sense.” Rachel eventually stuttered, “You’re from Lima Heights Adjacent.” 

Santana laughed emptily. She knew Quinn would’ve if she’d heard it too. 

“Yeah,” she sighed, “I guess Roofies tend to even out the playing field.”

Rachel was watching her carefully, she could feel it. There were tears threatening to spill from her eyes, but Santana could tell the girl was doing her best to keep them contained; presumably for her benefit. When her lip started to quiver, Rachel had spoken rigidly; as if doing so might help her keep the sea of emotions at bay. 

“Do they know who did it?” she asked, slowly re-adjusting herself against the arm of the couch so she could face Santana completely. 

“They haven’t caught him, but I’d know that voice anywhere,” Santana breathed quietly. She was hunched over, twisting her fingers around each other on her lap. It was a nervous tick that she seemed to have developed in recent weeks. 

Somehow, Santana knew Rachel would know who she was talking about even though he had been little more than a late-night blip in the grand scheme of their outrageously eventful lives. Honestly, they were barely twenty. How had they been through so much already?

When Santana finally mustered the courage to look up, she found Rachel’s face making it’s way through a flurry of emotions so rapidly it was hard to keep up until, eventually, she landed on a strangled gasp. 

“Baseball cap,” she had cried out. “It was him. At the table, I didn’t-”

Now it was Santana’s turn for an emotional tailspin. The table?

Rachel looked at her with such certainty that it was clear the both of them should’ve probably talked about this a lot sooner. Because it felt like pieces she hadn’t known were even missing were suddenly fitting together. For weeks, she had agonised over how he had managed to get the better of her. Santana was an expert at protecting her drink from random sleazy guys in bars. She’d been doing it since she was fourteen. Three drinks shouldn’t have been nearly enough to throw her off her game like that.

But she had gone to the bathroom. 

And Rachel mentioned some guy hitting on her while she was gone.

It all seemed so obvious now. 

* * *

A couple of hours had passed by the time they finished talking. Santana had surprised herself, going into more detail than she expected as she gave Rachel a play-by-play of the nights events after she had left them both outside by the cab. 

_She had rushed back to the booth to find Rachel’s phone, but it was gone._

_A drunk girl nearby mentioned someone had handed it into the bartender._

_Her head hurt, like the music was suddenly on a mission to crush her skull._

_She asked the bartender about the phone, but he had only just started his shift and was completely useless._

_The young guy’s voice made her feel like someone was drilling holes directly into her ears._

_She texted Kurt telling him to take Rachel home, while she pushed her way into the ‘staff only’ room to find a manager._

_The room was empty and the shapes on the walls were laughing at her._

_Everything was cloudy._

_Her legs weren’t listening to her._

_He had grabbed her from behind, tugging her by the hair into the back alley._

_She slapped him, but she didn’t; because her arms were faulty._

_He’d muttered something about how she had it coming._

_And asked if she liked his new jeans._

Rachel gripped onto her hand, listening intently to every word. It was remarkable how quiet she was being actually. Santana could appreciate it must’ve taken a great deal of self-control for the loudmouth to keep her trap shut for this long. Maybe they really _were_ best friends after all. 

She waited until she knew Santana was done talking, even though it meant they were forced into an uneasy silence for another five minutes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she had eventually asked. 

“Kurt was worried you’d blame yourself,” Santana shrugged, “We were just trying to look out for you.”

Rachel tipped her head back in an effort to stop a rogue tear from spilling out. She wiped her eyes, tightening her grip on Santana’s hand and looking her friend in the eye with such an intensity that it almost scared the Latina girl. 

“But who was looking out for you?”

* * *

“I called Brittany.”

Rachel had announced it out of nowhere, while they were watching The One With The Princess Leia Fantasy. Santana hit pause before the sentence had even completely left the other girl’s mouth.

“You did what?” she bolted up in her chair, panic taking over every inch of her body. When had Rachel called Brittany? When had she even had the _opportunity_ to call Brittany? They had been on the couch together all afternoon. They hadn’t even gone to the bathroom. 

Rachel must’ve sensed her confusion, because she was quick to correct the misunderstanding. “The night you and Quinn came home, I mean. I called her.”

“But you didn’t know.” 

“I knew enough to know you needed her,” Rachel had shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

It led to a more pressing question though, because Brittany had never come. They both knew that. Her heart sank. The way Rachel was now suddenly avoiding eye contact told her this story wouldn’t end the way either of them wanted it to. Santana wasn’t sure she would be able to hear it, but she was even more sure that she needed to. 

“What did she say?” her voice trembled as she asked the question. 

“I think she was asleep,” Rachel treaded carefully, as if one wrong move would cause them to both spontaneously combust in their seats. “But I left a voicemail.” 

And then, the story had reached it’s only logical, yet nonetheless utterly soul-destroying conclusion.

“She never called me back.” 

Santana was a star. 

But there were so many other wonders in the night sky, begging to be found. 

Stars paled in comparison, really. 


	9. How Long Can We Keep this Up (Santana & Rachel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana and Rachel share a brain. Sue Sylvester has an important question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the lovely comments so far! 
> 
> I re-watched 'Frenemies' yesterday and the Pezberry dynamic reminded me of that 'my last two brain cells' meme. So I decided to have a bit of fun with this chapter and have written it as a bit of a duelling inner monologue between the two of them. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> (Also all the etymology stuff came from https://www.etymonline.com/)

Monday.

_… Middle English monedai. From Old English mōndæg. A contraction of mōnandæg “Monday." Literally: "day of the moon,"_

Tuesday.

… _a translation of Latin dies Martis "Day of Mars," from the Roman god of war._

Wednesday.

… _the name of Morticia and Gomez Addams’ eldest and only daughter._

Thursday.

… _the day of the week between Wednesday and Friday, I guess._

Friday.

… _Fri-YAY._

Saturday.

… _seventh day of the week, Old English sæterdæg, sæternesdæg, literally "day of the planet Saturn,"_

Sunday. 

… _The day of rest?_

Telling this part of the story together was going to be a lot harder than they’d originally thought.

Because Rachel was a _nerd_.

And Santana clearly had _no understanding_ of how to craft a thoughtful narrative that resonated with an audience.

* * *

_Monday._

They’d yelled at Kurt.

Well, Rachel had yelled at Kurt. It was kind of scary actually, in a totally amusing way. 

After their talk in the living room a week earlier, the girls had ultimately agreed to let bygones be bygones. Rachel moved back in, and they’d simply told their other roommate that they’d buried the hatchet because they missed each other too much. It was Santana’s request, because she felt like there’d been too much tension in the loft lately and with everything else going on in her world she wanted her home to be a sanctuary of sorts. Rachel was of course happy to oblige.

Okay that totally _wasn’t_ how Santana had phrased it, but whatever… Either way, it had all been sunshine and daisies until Kurt heard them squabbling over their respective outfit choices a few days later and made some throwaway comment about always having to be the one to broker peace between the pair. 

Rachel had been consumed with more rage than she ever thought possible, and thrown a shoe at him with so much force he fell back into his bedroom curtain. The verbal assault that followed was somehow even more brutal.

The poor guy hadn’t even seen it coming. He started sputtering something about how he thought he was doing it for their own good, but that made Rachel even angrier because apparently she was tired of people taking away her agency, or not holding her accountable for her actions, just because she’d been known to cry about things sometimes. Santana felt like valid points had been made on both sides of the debate.

But Kurt _should_ have seen it coming, really. What else did he expect Rachel to do when she finally discovered the truth? It’s not as if she would find out later and go _‘_ oh great, thank you for forcing Santana to suffer through a traumatic event in silence while I paraded around the loft being totally oblivious to the depth of her issues whilst continuing to throw my own emotional baggage at her every night like she was some ball girl at a tennis match. _’_ Rachel felt like the most insensitive friend in the world. She considered herself incredibly lucky Santana hadn’t tried to stab her while she slept.

Or lucky Kurt had hidden all the knives.

What?

Anyway, Rachel thought he had it coming. Santana thought they could’ve just tied him up outside for the night and called it even.

They tossed a coin, Rachel won. 

The whole thing had been like an out-of-body experience for Santana. She was fascinated by how quickly her ability to completely annihilate someone with little more than an insightful, if albeit brutally honest, verbal monologue about the person’s worst qualities had rubbed off on Rachel while they’d been living together. She wondered if maybe the Jewish girl had somehow absorbed the talent from her body because they’d been sleeping next to each other so often; like some sort of creepy biological phenomenon derived from their physical proximity. 

Osmosis. It was called osmosis. One of them had _actually_ listened in high school science class. 

* * *

_ Tuesday.  _

Pointy-face director (Rupert) and the sweaty producer guy (Sidney) had them doing a bunch of PR exercises for Funny Girl. They were positioning it as some lame underdog story about two former high school Glee club rivals from Ohio moving to New York together and taking over Broadway before they were even legally allowed to drink. It was that clinically overdone ‘enemies to best friends’ cliche everyone seemed to love so much. 

Correction: it was _their_ story, and it was beautiful. 

Some lady from the New York Times had dropped by the loft to interview them, because apparently the journalist refused to write pieces on people unless they met in an ‘authentic environment.’ Santana called bullshit; the woman was clearly a kleptomaniac. So, she’d hidden all their valuables. 

Rachel _still_ couldn’t find her grandmother’s earrings. 

The interview had gone well though. In fact, once Rachel had convinced Santana it _wasn’t_ funny to joke about the nature of their private sleeping arrangements to people who literally held all control over their public image in the palm of their hands, every interview they’d done together had gone swimmingly.

In Santana’s defence, Rupert and Sidney had been totally fine with her swinging the story that way at first. She’d checked with them beforehand.

But they hadn’t checked with Rachel, had they? 

The point was… a couple of not-so-straight comments had slipped into some of their earlier interviews, on the record. Not that Santana cared; she’d been outed on state television and had a sex tape released of her before she even turned eighteen. It would almost be offensive if someone in the media _hadn’t_ brought up her raging homosexuality. But of course she’d stopped saying anything to that effect when Rachel expressed her discomfort.

Because the two of them were working on communicating better with each other now. 

Yeah. They were. 

When Kurt stormed into the loft waving the latest copy of _Broadway Weekly_ at them like some sort of flustered house elf, neither Santana or Rachel were really sure what to do about it. They’d pretty much forgiven him since Rachel’s little yelling match the day before. It was kind of hard not to when he looked so sad all the time. The Dwarf had really gone to town on him over it all… 

“Ladies,” he screeched, “We have a DEFCON 1 situation on our hands. DEFCON 1!”

Rachel and Kurt reserved such a statement for only the most severe of emergencies. Therefore, she hadn’t enquired further; instead immediately opting to join him in a fit of panic. “DEFCON 1?? Santana we have a DEFCON 1!” she screamed. 

Like a level headed shepherd herding a meagre flock of scraggy, unwanted sheep, Santana had settled both of her roommates at the kitchen table before grabbing the magazine from a hyperventilating Kurt’s sweaty little hands. They watched her like she was holding the Holy Grail and about to bless all three of them with eternal youth or something.

_“Funny Girls on Film,”_ she read slowly, _“Meet the lesbian power couple taking the broadway world by storm.”_ Santana scowled, “That headline doesn’t even make sense. It’s a live show.”

Rachel had screamed like a banshee for approximately ten minutes. 

She wasn’t even going to refute that. 

* * *

_ Wednesday.  _

Apparently the New Directions gossip circle was still in full working order. Because it took less than two days for the news of Rachel and Santana’s _Broadway Weekly_ double-page spread to traverse everywhere from Lima to sunny Los Angeles to the presumably drab, colourless walls of MIT; despite not a single copy of the limited print magazine actually being available to anyone outside the state of New York.

Who were they kidding? It was bound to happen. 

They were just wrapping up another incredibly successful ‘Chicks at the Flicks at Home’ night, which was a delightful monthly gathering of some of Rachel’s favourite (and only) gal pals; Santana, Dani and Quinn (via Skype). It was like a book club, wherein they’d each take turns choosing a movie to watch. They’d sip wine and debate the intricacies of the film together, evaluating every aspect of it from the acting choices to the direction to the production design to the historical context in which it was made. 

It was a movie night. They were watching, ‘The First Wives Club.’ 

“This ending always makes me want to divorce the husband I haven’t met yet,” Quinn mused, elbow perched against the laptop screen as she gazed toward her own TV in the background. 

Santana smirked, “bit of a theme with you lately there, Q. Got something to tell us?” She traced her lips over Dani’s hand, winking at the webcam. It earned her a scornful, pixelated glare in response. 

None the wiser, Rachel sighed. “I agree with Quinn.” 

“Of course you do.” 

Dani had excused herself to use the bathroom as the end credits rolled. Santana was in the middle of repositioning herself on the couch when the faint sound of the phone ringing next to her had basically thrown her into a comatose state. 

Rachel and Quinn stopped their idle chatter shortly after. See, Santana set personalised ringtones for them based on whatever ridiculous (and occasionally somewhat insulting) song she associated with them. Rachel’s was _So Emotional;_ Quinn’s was _Bitch;_ Finn’s had been _Like a Virgin,_ Kurt and Blaine’s were both that song they liked from Moulin Rouge and Mike Chang’s was _Dancing Queen_. Not every member of Glee club had their own song dedicated to them, so it was sort of a big deal if you did. Because it meant you were important to Santana. You mattered. 

_If I Can’t Have You_ was currently blaring incessantly from the device. 

No one needed to ask who it was. 

The three of them sat there until it rang out.

After Rachel revealed the details of her own unanswered phone call with Brittany weeks earlier, Santana had asked her never to speak of it again. Upon liaising privately with Quinn about the matter, it had become apparent to the both of them that Santana was making a habit out of placing an embargo on any matters that upset her. While it was probably something worth addressing with the girl, they were all quite busy rehearsing for Funny Girl and Rachel knew the show couldn’t afford to withstand another one of their passionate feuds. So, she was trying her best not to bring it up. 

(Santana made a mental note to move out the minute Funny Girl was over)

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Dani re-emerged from the bathroom announcing her intent to leave. Santana had given her a barely-there peck and walked her out, before skulking back to the couch and curling up into a ball in the corner. 

“Santana,” Quinn probed, “I have to go, but you should call her back. Then call me, okay?” 

Santana rolled her eyes and looked away from them both. Quinn simply responded by giving Rachel a pointed nod and logging off for the night. They waited quietly until Santana found the courage to glance back toward the other girl; only to find that she was playing a game of Candy Crush on her phone.

“Really, Rachel?” she gaped. 

“What?” Rachel had been defensive, “You told me never to talk to you about Brittany. I’m respecting your wishes.”

Santana considered her petulantly, before slumping back in her chair like a five-year old. 

“Unless,” Rachel continued, “You’ve changed your mind?”

The Latina girl sighed. “No, I haven’t.” 

“Okay then.” Rachel clapped, dusting herself off and standing up, “I’m heading to bed.” 

Rachel had barely made it behind the curtain when the familiar sound of Brittany and Santana’s disco-themed love song rang through the apartment once again. She considered returning to the living room for support. But then the song stopped, so either Santana had cut the line or… Rachel slipped into her pyjamas and got into bed as if she hadn’t heard anything at all. 

Moments later, Santana had been practically shaking on the other side of the curtain. Because, for some unknown, _insanely stupid_ reason, she had answered the call. She drew back the bedroom curtains so abruptly that Rachel had jumped out of her skin and squealed.

“Body snatched,” Santana had crumbled as she said it, flopping down on the bed and curling into a foetal position. The girl was inconsolable for hours. 

Two minutes. She’d been crying for two minutes. 

Eventually, her sobbing subsided enough for her to tell Rachel what happened. 

_Santana had meant to decline the call, but then her finger slipped and suddenly the phone was pressed against her ear. A total accident._

_“Brittany?” Santana asked, admittedly both curious and terrified as to why the girl had called so late. Twice._

_“Hi,” Brittany’s voice was like a jolt of lighting to Santana’s nervous system, breathing life into parts of Santana she hadn’t realised were even there anymore._

_She took a deep breath. “Is everything okay?”_

_“Yeah,” came the calm reply, “I couldn’t sleep. I needed to hear your voice.”_

_“Oh,” it was like all the oxygen had suddenly been sucked from Santana’s lungs and some sort of giddy little leprechaun dancing on her organs was the only thing left working to keep her alive._

_Santana knew there had to be another reason the blonde had called, though. She could feel it in the space between them. A penny, waiting to be dropped._

_She was right._

_“I was worried the body-snatchers had got to you,” Brittany trembled, “and I wasn’t sure how long it’d been because I haven’t really spoken to you properly since the start of the semester. So, it’d be really hard to pinpoint when exactly the swap had taken place which would make my recovery mission super hard.”_

_“I haven’t been replaced by a clone, Britt,” she couldn’t help but smile._

_“Well I know that now, because I’m obviously talking to the real you.” The other girl had said, like it was the most normal thing in the world._

_But then Brittany’s voice had gone cold, and all the blood drained from Santana’s heart. Because suddenly she knew what was coming, and it wasn’t something she had ever expected to have to explain. Not to Brittany. Brittany was always supposed to just… know things._

_“I’d just love if the real you could explain to me how you and Rachel Berry ended up sleeping together though, Santana. Because, honestly, I think part of me was hoping you'd been body-snatched.”_

_Santana ended the call before she even registered what she was doing._

_She’d hung up on Brittany._

_Santana had never hung up on Brittan_ y _before._

Rachel really wanted to yell at Kurt again. 

Santana was just about ready to murder him. 

They agreed to toss another coin. 

* * *

_ Thursday. _

The girls were about to wrap up a shift in the diner when Kurt stormed through the kitchen doors, waving his phone around as if Gunther had set it on fire to punish him for texting too much again. 

“Oh my god,” he screamed, to the entire establishment.

“Now what?” Santana drawled, “Your band booked a huge gig playing a show at the Union Square Subway station?” 

Rachel cut her off, “Kurt, if that truly is the case then we’re happy for you but please don’t rub it in. Santana and I are still quite upset you kicked us out.”

“Speak for yourself,” Santana rolled her eyes. 

“It’s Glee club,” Kurt cried, “They’ve been disbanded. They didn’t win at Nationals, they’re turning the choir room into a computer lab or something. And Sue isn’t backing down this time.” 

Rachel had looked to Santana immediately. They had to take action.

Santana? Not quite on the same wave-length.

“Ok guys, not to be _that_ person but do neither of you find it strange how invested we are in a high school Glee club we’re not even _in_ anymore?” Santana queried, much to the dismay of Kurt and Rachel. “We’ve all stayed in touch anyway. Can’t we just hang out in restaurants, or just sing at people’s houses if we really have to? I mean, we literally have a piano gathering dust in the middle of the loft right now.” 

The plea had ultimately fallen on deaf ears. 

“I’ll book the flights.” Rachel marched off without another word.

* * *

_ Friday-  _

/

“Okay no, I can’t sit through any more of this.” Sue Sylvester bolted up from her desk, shaking her head in disgust at Rachel and Santana who were sitting in the two chairs opposite her. It was Sunday morning. The two girls were covered head to toe in mud (and some other kind of unidentified sludge that Santana was trying desperately not to think about). Sue started pacing around the room, clearly repulsed by the both of them. 

“Ladies, I have coached some of the state of Ohio’s most idiotic young students over the course of my incredibly successful, seven-consecutive-National-cheerleading-championship-winning career,” she seethed, “but I can honestly say, that sitting here having the two of you force me to listen to a tiresome recount of your incredibly _tragic_ lives, which I can only assume have been entirely falsified based on one of Sandbag’s Abuela’s favourite telenovelas, has made it clear to me that my only viable course of action here is to finally throw in the towel, skip town and find the nearest de-registered medical facility; where I will _demand_ they lobotomise me for the sole purpose of erasing the foul stench of this incredibly mundane story that has fundamentally failed to meet it’s objective. Which, I might remind you, was to explain how a prospective Texan senate candidate managed to end up hanging upside down by his ankles from the goalpost of the McKinley High football field at 4am on a Sunday morning.”

“Burn,” Becky Jackson scowled from behind the reception desk outside of what had formerly been Principal Figgin’s office. 

Santana looked to Rachel, who looked back to Santana, who pointedly _glared_ at Rachel, who tilted her head back at Santana. Sue was losing patience with the both of them. 

“ _Well?_ ” she demanded.

Rachel swallowed, eventually choking out an incredibly feeble response on behalf of both of them. 

“That’s probably more of a question for Brittany.”


	10. I Should be Crying, But I Just Can't Let it Show (Santana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana is fine, then she isn't.

When Santana was five years old, the boy next door shoved her head into a brick wall. 

_She shoved him off the brick wall._

When Santana was seven years old, her Abuela tried to sell her to a man on the street because she wouldn’t finish her dinner.

_She tore a chunk of his arm out with her teeth._

When Santana was twelve years old, her father’s colleague grabbed her by the waist at a dinner party.

_She broke his nose._

When Santana was seventeen years old, she was outed as a lesbian on state television.

_She held her head high._

Because Santana Lopez was many things.

A bitch.

A fiercely talented performer. 

Sexy as hell.

But Santana Lopez was _not_ a victim.

* * *

They arrived in Lima early on Friday afternoon. Rachel and Kurt spent the entire flight squawking at each other about the end of the New Directions and how they were going to go about implementing the half-baked rescue plan they hadn’t even thought of yet. Santana had never wanted to leave somewhere so soon after arriving.

_“It could be good for you,” Quinn had tried to be encouraging on the phone that morning, “Maybe a break is what you need right now.”_

_“Yeah,” Santana huffed, “A break from you.”_

_It was only half a joke. Ever since Santana made up with Rachel, Quinn had been oddly attentive; calling her at least twice a week (usually when Rachel & Kurt were otherwise occupied). She suspected the two were secretly conspiring to keep an eye on her, which was stupid. She felt fine. _

_Quinn had just laughed, undeterred. “Breadsticks, 7 o’clock tonight?”_

_“Of course.”_

* * *

“So,” Santana purred, biting onto the end of her breadstick, “When do I get to meet the honourable Doc. McStuffins?” 

The pair sat at a booth together in the middle of the restaurant, surrounded by the usual Friday night crowd. Quinn seemed bothered by the number of Cheerios uniforms in the room, eyeing them with contempt each time one passed by. Santana was just happy to be united with her breadsticks again. 

“His name,” Quinn pursed her lips, “Is Biff McIntosh. And he’s coming along to McKinley tomorrow once we’ve cleared out the auditorium. Have you ever heard of outward adjustment?”

Santana overlooked the latter half of Quinn’s response purely based on the quietly condescending tone in which it had been delivered. No - she didn’t know what outward adjustment was, or care to find out. 

“ _After_ we’ve cleared out the auditorium? My god Quinn why do you keep wasting your time on all these losers when you can do so much better?” Santana pressed on, “You’re one of the two hottest bitches I know.”

“Do I even want to ask who the second hot bitch is?” 

That wasn’t Quinn. 

Santana froze as she felt a tall shadow linger at the side of the table. There was no need for the Latina girl to look up in order to know who it was. So, she didn’t. 

“Brittany!” Quinn stood up to hug the other girl, “I’m so glad you could make it.” 

As the pair got reacquainted, Santana couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed by Quinn. The conniving she-devil had _planned_ this. And here she thought they might finally be learning to trust each other again. Traitorous bitch.

Then Brittany had sat down next to _her_ and the booth suddenly felt far too small for all three of them. Santana could feel herself inching away from the other girl, until she was practically hugging the wall. She noticed Brittany watching her out of the corner of her eye, graciously concealing her quiet disappointment. Santana felt terrible; she didn’t even know why she was doing it. But she had to, before she suffocated. 

“I didn’t realise you were coming,” Santana mumbled eventually. 

“Well I would’ve told you on the phone the other night,” Brittany shrugged, grabbing a breadstick in lieu of looking at her. “But you hung up on me.”

It was a low blow. Everyone knew Glee club hadn’t been cut until the day after she spoke to Brittany. As Santana hung her head in shame, Quinn shifted uncomfortably in her seat. An awkward silence settled among the trio. It was stifling. 

Brittany, it seemed, was on a mission to maintain this awkwardness between them for as long as possible. She folded her arms and leaned across the table enthusiastically like a gossiping school girl. 

“So, Quinn,” she’d probed, “what are your thoughts on this whole Santana and Rachel thing? Do we like it?” Santana shrunk into her seat. Never in a million years had she imagined those words coming out of Brittany’s mouth in that order. 

To her credit, Quinn stepped up. “I don’t have any thoughts,” she hummed, fiddling with her napkin, “because they’re not a thing.” 

Santana didn’t want to get ahead of herself, but she could’ve sworn Brittany looked relieved. She jumped in before the other pair could finish their conversation.

“Quinn,” she spoke evenly, “could you give us a minute?”

“Gladly.” Quinn was gone before Santana could say ‘breadsticks.’ 

Then, for the first time that evening, Santana gave herself permission to look at Brittany properly. The girl had her hair down. It was longer than she remembered. Her face looked tired, but her eyes had that early morning glow about them; like she’d somehow slept all at once and not at all. Brittany wasn’t looking back at her though. She had her head propped up against one elbow on the table and was gazing petulantly up towards the ceiling. Santana knew she was trying to make a point. It shouldn’t have been half as endearing as it was.

_“_ Britt-”

“I’m mad at you.” Brittany cut her off, “Also, you look amazing.” 

The compliment was tossed out like the girl would rather have chopped her own arm off than given it. Santana felt a warmth creeping up her neck. She’d always found Brittany kind of cute when she was angry.

Shit, she had to stay focused. 

Santana scrambled for something to say. This isn’t exactly how she’d planned for her night _with Quinn_ to turn out, and she’d never really mapped out what kind of conversation she and Brittany would have about this when the time came. Actually, the plan had kind of just been to avoid having a conversation at all and then dying alone when she was ninety-five. Maybe if she made a run for it now, that could still be an option?

If she apologised for hanging up, she’d be forced to explain why _(because Brittany didn’t call Rachel back)._ In doing so, Santana could only envision two possible outcomes:

  1. Santana would ask why Brittany didn’t call Rachel back and inevitably learn the girl had moved on to someone taller and prettier who knew how to be nice to people to their faces instead of just behind their backs. Santana would get hurt. 
  2. Brittany would ask why Rachel called her to begin with and Santana wouldn’t know what to say, plunging them into silence and a realisation that they could no longer talk to each other the way they used to. Santana and Brittany would both get hurt. 



Santana wasn’t particularly sold on either of those options.

“I’m not having sex with Rachel, Britt.” She rasped, like it was a secret meant to only be shared between the two of them. 

“I know that.” Brittany turned towards her, “In that article you just said you were sleeping with her, not having sex with her. There’s a difference,” she dropped into a whisper, “Unless you’ve finally figured out how to have sex with someone in your sleep?” 

Santana shook her head, suddenly a lot more confused than she’d been before. “No, not yet.”

“Good,” Brittany quipped, “Because you promised we were gonna work on that together.” 

It was so… Brittany, that Santana couldn’t help but smile. She’d missed the two of them being together like this. Even now, when they were arguing about sleep sex and tap-dancing around conversations Santana knew would break them apart for good, everything just fit. She wanted to hold onto this moment forever. 

“Wait,” Santana frowned, “Why do you care about me sleeping with Rachel if you know we’re not having sex?” 

“Because,” Brittany’s response had been thoughtful, deliberate. “You only sleep next to people when you’re sad, or in love with them.” She folded her arms, cheeks flushing slightly. “Either way, it was bothering me.” 

Santana didn’t have the heart to confirm which one it was out loud, even if she was sure they both already knew. She took a laboured breath in and placed a reaffirming hand on Brittany’s leg, squeezing it softly. 

“I’m sorry for hanging up on you.” 

It wasn’t nearly enough, but she held Brittany’s gaze for as long as possible in the hope that their eyes might still be fluent in that special language of theirs that no one else ever understood. Because there was a heavy lump in the back of her throat holding back the rest of the words and she wasn’t sure any more would be able to come out, even if she tried to make them. 

Eventually, Santana felt slender fingers closing over her hand and breathed in a broken sigh of relief. She opened her eyes to find Brittany gazing at her in that delightfully enchanted way of hers that had always made Santana feel _seen._

Of course Brittany understood.

The blonde grabbed a menu from the middle of the table and opened it up with one hand, still clutching tightly onto Santana with the other. She smirked playfully at the Latina girl.

“So for dessert, I’m thinking we get one of everything?”

Brittany always understood.

* * *

Quinn never came back to Breadsticks that night, but as she and Brittany were leaving the restaurant Santana had received a text message from her that just said, “You’re welcome.” Despite it’s shaky start, the rest of the night had gone quite well; with Santana and Brittany filling each other in on stories of MIT experiments and ‘the best of Grandma Berry & Lady Hummel’ that they’d neglected to tell each other over the phone in the last couple of months. The fact that Quinn had likely known it would end like this left Santana wondering whether she’d be more likely to hug or hit the girl next time they saw each other. Knowing them, it may even be both. 

The pair stopped in the carpark. Coincidentally (or not), Brittany had parked right next to her. Britt was watching her, again. She’d been doing that all night. Watching. If Santana were to be honest with herself, she’d say that being the sole focus of the MIT genius’ attention for a night was everything she’d been dreaming about for months. She should’ve been elated, even with the weight of Rachel’s unreturned phone call still taunting her quietly… But something was off with Brittany as well. Santana could tell as she watched the blonde lean back wearily against the door of her car. Her entire body seemed to ache from the pain of holding itself up. It concerned her. She couldn’t do anything other than watch timidly from a few feet away, hoping Brittany might give some sort of non-verbal cue as to what their next move was, like she always did. 

Santana sometimes thought she could read Brittany better than she could read herself.

That’s why when the minutes flew by and nothing changed between them, Santana was certain something else was playing on her ex-girlfriend’s mind. She regarded her carefully, inching forward almost involuntarily to lock eyes with the other girl. Brittany had that same look on her face that Santana had earlier that night. The one that said she wanted to say something, but didn’t know how. Would it be hypocritical of Santana, to push Brittany into confessing whatever difficult words were on her mind when Santana herself had been unable to speak her own truth earlier that night? Probably.

“Are you okay?” Shit. Her mouth and brain _really_ weren’t on the same page tonight. 

“Yeah, of course.” Brittany had lied, “I think I just ate too many breadsticks.” 

Santana didn’t feel right leaving Brittany like this, and she could tell the other girl was reluctant to go by the way she kept fiddling with her car keys. If neither of them were ready to talk but neither of them were ready to go, then where did that leave them? 

She could feel her next words escaping before she had a chance to think about what they might mean. “Do you wanna come over? Mom and Dad are out so the house is empty. We could watch a movie and keep catching up?” 

When that signature smile returned to Brittany’s face again, Santana knew she’d done the right thing. 

For both of them.

* * *

She couldn’t breathe. 

Something was pushing into her chest. A weight, of sorts, and she felt like her ribcage was going to cave in from the pressure. She couldn’t _breathe._

Her legs were barely holding her up anymore. Something else was; a dark figure whose face blended in with the rest of itself. It pushed her back against a cold, uneven surface and consumed her and _she couldn’t breathe._

She had to get out but there was nowhere to go.

As the shadow grew even bigger, she wondered if it might swallow her whole.

She had to get out but it had all of the control.

She pushed and clawed at it, but it was no use. All she’d done was make it braver, more determined.

She had to get out. 

Maybe if she screamed loud enough, she could force it away. 

So she did. 

She screamed and cried and yelled until her lungs hurt. Because she had to get out or she never would. 

She had to.

“Santana.” 

The next thing she felt was a firm hand on her shoulder, then soft lips tucking into her neck from behind and whispering soothing words into her skin. It was still so dark, too dark. Her eyes were shut, but she couldn’t remember how to open them. She whispered to herself that none of it had been real, over and over again, until eventually it she started to believe it. Because the pressure she felt now, grasping at her waist and vibrating against her skin? That wasn’t there to harm her. It was there to help.

Gasping for air, Santana let out a singular strangled sob. She felt herself being tugged even more firmly into the familiar grooves of the warm body behind her. Brittany’s hands snaked around her waist to interlace across her stomach, sketching smooth patterns against her skin. Santana felt herself gripping onto the girl’s arms like they were an anchor, bringing her back into the present moment before she got lost again. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

It was just a dream. 

They were on the couch in her living room; the movie they’d picked still playing in the background. She must’ve fallen asleep. Santana knew that at some point, she needed to tell Brittany to move. She needed to tell her to give her space, because already she could feel her body itching for it; closing in on itself the same way it had when Brittany arrived at the restaurant earlier. That could wait though, she thought, because her body might need that from her soon; but right now _she_ needed this. 

Brittany seemed to understand that too. She was holding her ever so gently, all the while silently assuring her she’d never let go. It was only when Santana had felt tears spilling softly against her shoulder that she finally came to her senses and began to realise what had just happened between them. She climbed out of Brittany’s embrace and stood up, scraping her fingers through her hair and taking another lung full of air in an attempt to ground herself again.

When Santana eventually found the courage to turn around, she found Brittany wiping her eyes and looking at her with so much fear and uncertainty that Santana hated herself. She’d been responsible for this. For making Brittany feel like _that._

“We fell asleep,” Brittany whispered shakily, “I’m sorry I… think I somehow ended up leaning against you and you… What’s going on, Santana?” 

Santana felt herself bristle at the question. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be for them. Brittany wasn’t supposed to look at her like she was a stupid child in need of protecting. Not over something like this; something she could barely even _remember_. No. 

She’d read about other cases where people had been hurt far more than she had; damaged physically and mentally beyond repair. That’s why she knew it; she didn’t have the right to feel this way when she’d escaped with the luxury of barely-there memories and a few bruised ribs. So she definitely didn’t have the right to make Brittany feel so concerned about it either, because it was nothing. She was fine. 

“I think you should head home,” Santana rasped, “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” 

Brittany looked as if she was going to argue, but she didn’t get the chance. Because someone cleared their throat behind them, and Santana turned to see her Mom standing wide eyed in the entrance of the living room. Her stomach turned as the realisation struck her that the older woman may have been there a lot longer than either of them had realised.

“It’s nice to see you again, Brittany.” she smiled politely, “You should stop by for dinner before you go, so we can catch up properly.”

Brittany had given Santana a pointed look. They both knew her mother was telling her to leave, but she was waiting to see if Santana would change her mind first.

She didn’t.

“It was nice to see you too, Mrs Lopez.” Brittany grabbed her bag from the coffee table, “I’d better get going.” 

Santana folded her arms, barely looking Brittany in the eye as she left. She vaguely registered her mother taking her by the hand and leading her back to the sofa, propping up a pillow behind her back to make her more comfortable.

“I think it’s time we talked, _mija.”_

* * *

They didn’t talk. 

Not for a while, at least. Santana had no idea what to say. Her Mom held her hand while they waited together. It was as if they were waiting for something trivial like a bus or a doctor’s appointment or that time they had to sit outside her middle-school principal’s office together because Santana had been caught starting a fight again.

Santana wondered if they’d be waiting forever. 

Eventually, her Mom sighed and squeezed her hand firmly. “I know, sweetheart.” 

Santana’s heart leapt out of her chest as the gravity of those three little words settled into the space around them. Her mother had always been a woman of few words, reserving her voice only for the ones that meant something; the kind of words that were capable of knocking Santana out completely.

"How,” she stuttered, unsure what words were supposed to come next. 

“Who did you think paid the medical bill, _mija?”_

Oh. 

Santana’s not sure when she started crying, or when her mother had pulled her into her arms for the kind of unconditionally warm embrace that only a mother could give. She let herself bask in the relief of someone knowing. Someone who wasn’t Quinn or Rachel or Kurt, who each tried to help in their own way but ultimately would never understand her the way she was so desperate to be understood. Here, under the dim light of her family living room in the middle of the night, she felt protected.

“I didn’t know how to tell you _mami_ ,” Santana mumbled into her chest, “I… I didn’t know… I thought you’d be disappointed in me.”

“Santana,” her mother breathed, “this wasn’t your fault.” 

“But if I’d been more careful,” she argued

“This wasn’t your fault,” her mother repeated.

“Or dressed differently,” she rambled, “Or fought back like you and _papi_ taught me to.”

Her mother was gripping her so tightly Santana could barely move. She could feel tears streaming down her face with reckless abandon, spilling onto her mother’s sleep shirt. Her breath was catching in her throat, sobs making her hiccup and gasp at uncontrollable intervals. Her Mom pulled her closer into her chest as if she trying to meld the two of them together, pressing a furious kiss to her forehead. 

“This _wasn’t_ your fault.” 

For the first night since she was five years old, Santana slept in her parent’s bed.

* * *

She met Rachel and Kurt at the Lima Bean that morning before heading into McKinley together. It was strange being there on a weekend. But Mr. Schue wanted to pack up the auditorium properly, so they could salvage as many props, costumes and other treasured memories before Sue and her posse of mindless drones arrived on Monday morning to toss it all in the garbage. Also, Santana figured being here on a weekend wouldn’t be half as weird as being here on a school day when they were supposed to have graduated, which somehow she had also agreed to do every day for the next week.

Didn’t she used to be cool?

And yes, _maybe_ she was avoiding Brittany today. She couldn’t help it. The moment they’d arrived, Brittany had looked up from the conversation she’d been having with Tina and Artie and given her that sad doe-eyed look as if she was worried Santana was about to break in half or something. She just… needed a minute to get her head screwed on straight before she could deal with what any of that might mean for the two of them. 

But then Brittany started fooling around and acting like an idiot on the stage with _Trouty Mouth_ , looking more carefree than she’d seen her since they got back and suddenly she was reminded once again of Rachel’s unanswered phone call. Santana swallowed the hurt before it could fully manifest into whatever callous statement she could feel brewing in the back of her throat right now.

“She’s not here for him,” Quinn nudged her shoulder, joining her by the side of the stage.

“You don’t know that.” Santana still hadn’t taken her eyes off the pair. 

“Yes,” Quinn continued, “I do.”

The two girls stood silently, watching as the estranged third member of the Unholy Trinity tried to stack a fifth sombrero onto Sam’s head. When the sombreros toppled onto the floor they’d laughed and started chasing an unamused Artie around the auditorium, trying to stack them on top of his head instead. 

“What are you guys doing?” Rachel popped up behind the girls, peering through the gap between their shoulders and scanning the room.

“Dammit, Berry!” Santana really wasn’t in the mood for any of Rachel’s antics today. 

“Santana is letting her insecurities get the better of her again.” Quinn nodded towards the Arian fantasy couple as they continued to joke around and get absolutely _nothing_ done while other people were hard at work. 

“Oh,” Rachel hummed, “Is this because of the phone call? I just feel so awful for telling you about it now.” 

Santana spun around to face Rachel and shot her a seething glare, “What did we agree, Rachel?” 

Rachel gulped, “Never mention the phone call?”

“Never,” Santana pointed a finger into her chest, “mention the-”

Brittany squealed as Sam tackled her into one of the sets on the other side of the stage. Santana stormed off and busied herself backstage with a bunch of wardrobe items in need of folding.

* * *

After lunch, Rachel announced that she would be blessing them all with an impromptu performance in the auditorium. Naturally, it was a mandate that all the New Directions gather to watch her. Santana had taken a seat towards the back, sandwiched in between Quinn and Mercedes; the latter of whom she hadn’t realised how much she missed until today.

“I can’t believe Rachel’s doing this already,” Mercedes huffed, “I had a bet with Artie that she’d hold out until at least tomorrow morning.” 

Santana and Quinn both chuckled. Honestly, Santana felt it was a miracle they’d made it this far without Rachel belting out one of her treasured power ballads. She just hoped the girl would appear soon so they could all get on with packing up what was left of the costume department and finally get out of here for the day so she could let loose on Quinn’s new boy-play-thing over dinner.

Eventually, Rachel pranced out onto the stage with an annoyingly smug look on her face. She beamed at Santana, who might’ve actually returned the sentiment if it weren’t for the fact that Trouty Mouth had then appeared on stage next to her and started setting up with his guitar and a couple of stools for them. What the hell was going on?

“So as you all know,” Rachel bragged, “I have recently landed the lead role in the Broadway musical, Funny Girl.” 

A few people in the audience clapped politely. Most of them had already heard it over twenty times today, so it was kind of losing its effect. 

“But I’m actually up here today to celebrate a different kind of win,” she continued, “one that I think might mean more to me than Funny Girl, which is a sentence I _never_ thought I’d hear myself say.”

A loud laugh echoed through the rest of the group, presumably from Mr. Schue. Everyone knew all too well how focused the diva had been on becoming a broadway star. Santana loved her and all, but the girl had sold out half of the people in this auditorium at least once so that she could get a solo or the lead in a musical, and she was pretty sure Rachel didn’t know the names of the _other_ half of the people. When Santana looked back up, it was to find that Rachel had moved across the stage and was staring right at her for some reason. Everyone else had started to notice too, and they all looked as confused as she felt. 

“Santana,” she smiled, “Over these last few months you have become _so_ important to me and given me so much hope when I thought there wasn’t any. So I wanted to take a moment to express how grateful I am, and hopefully give you something back in return. ”

“Oh god,” Quinn breathed, “What is she doing?” 

Rachel moved back towards Sam, taking a seat on the stool beside him. To say Santana was uncomfortable would be like saying World War II had been a minor disagreement between a few countries. She shuffled in her seat and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. _This_ is why she’d never been friends with Rachel Berry in high school. 

“Sam and I,” Rachel continued, placing a friendly hand on Sam’s shoulder, “were talking at lunch, and we both agreed that life is too short to be with anyone other than who we want to be with. And we shouldn’t shy away from it, just because it’s hard…”

“Or scary,” Trouts added.

Santana’s eyes found Brittany’s the minute Sam had spoken, terrified of what kind of reaction she might see there but needing to see it anyway. The girl was sitting between Mike and Artie in the front row, completely impassive.

“Yes,” Rachel nodded vehemently, “Because, let’s face it. Feelings… _love._ Can be scary. But it’s only scary, because it means something.”

Rachel smiled at Santana again, and the Latina girl could tell that this was about to be a disaster of epic proportions. Rachel Berry was not in love with her, but she sure as hell seemed to be acting like it and Santana couldn’t figure out what her game was here. Quinn seemed to be just as tense as she was. 

“So, we think,” Sam summarised, “It’s important to tell the people you care about that you love them.”

At that, Rachel softened, “Before it’s too late.”

The room briefly settled into silence as they remembered the one Glee club member who hadn’t made it back to be with them today.

Then, Rachel and Trouty Mouth had launched into a sickeningly sweet cover of Dusty Springfield’s _‘I only want to be with you.’_ Santana felt herself throw up in her mouth a little as she watched Rachel belt out the opening verse, her eyes inexplicably locked on _Santana_ the whole time.

_I don't know what it is that makes me love you so_

_I only know I never want to let you go_

“Did I miss something?” Quinn asked, looking just as horrified as Santana felt. 

Rachel shot them both a proud wink and started harmonising as Sam took the lead. As dramatic as her roommate was known to be, she was far too pleased with herself for this to have been some sort of weird coming out announcement/confession of her undying love for Santana. No, the Latina girl knew her better than that. Rachel Berry had an agenda. It was only as she watched Rachel’s eyes flit knowingly between her and Brittany over the next few bars that she realised what that agenda actually was.

God, Rachel Berry was a fucking idiot sometimes. 

_'Cause you've started something._

_Oh, can't you see?_

_That ever since we met you've had a hold on me_

Quinn cottoned onto it moments later, and the blonde had let out a quiet laugh to herself. Because Rachel wasn’t singing to Santana. She was singing to Brittany and Santana. The song was supposed to be about them, not _for_ them. But to everyone else in the room it sure as hell looked like Rachel Berry was confessing her undying love to Santana right now. It was mortifying. 

But then the real horror had struck her. Because, while Rachel may have had her own ridiculously unhinged reasons for singing the song, _Sam_ was definitely not on the same wavelength. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Brittany since the song began. If that stupid mouth of his opened into any wider of a smile his face might’ve actually swallowed the auditorium, and everyone in it.

_It’s crazy but it’s true, I only want to be with you_

There was no doubt about it. He was singing to Brittany, and only Brittany. Santana dissolved into her seat, frantically fighting back against the tears that were threatening to spill from her eyes. This was it. Brittany’s refusal to dump Sam, her speech to him at Regionals, the unreturned phone call when Santana needed her most… It all added up to one, undeniable conclusion. 

Brittany wasn’t hers anymore.

Quinn and Mercedes must’ve both sensed the shift in Santana’s demeanour, because she felt two reassuring arms discretely closing in on her from both sides. She steeled herself and held onto the tiny comfort they’d provided, hoping to God it would be enough to get her through the rest of this excruciating performance without anyone noticing she’d just had her heart ripped out of her chest by the human embodiment of a singing toad.

Apparently though, Brittany was having her own kind of revelation a few rows in front of them. The blonde stood up and jumped onto the stage before the duo could make it to the end of the second verse. She snatched Sam’s guitar out of his hand and stormed straight out of the auditorium without another word.

Suffice to say, the performance was over.

* * *

Santana hadn’t gone after Brittany.

She wanted to, but her legs had done that thing where they wouldn’t work again. When they finally switched back on they had carried her to the empty choir room without her consent. Santana sat on a seat in the back of the room and waited quietly. Though, for what, she wasn’t entirely sure. 

It was Mercedes who found her. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed. 

Her fellow Troubletone had sat down in the chair next to her and taken her by the hand. When Santana looked up, she was met with watery eyes and a kind smile. 

“You know in the three years we’ve known each other, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be this quiet.” Mercedes raised a knowing eyebrow at her. 

It wasn’t a request for information. Santana was grateful for that.

“Whatever it is, you don’t have to talk about it with me.” Mercedes reassured her, “But you _do_ need to tell me why Rachel was serenading you back in the auditorium because I honestly thought that _Broadway Weekly_ article had been a PR stunt until about an hour ago.” 

Santana laughed, “Rachel isn’t in love with me, she’s just a dumbass sometimes.” 

“Well, that much I already knew.” Mercedes shrugged, flicking a loose strand of hair back over her shoulder. 

The pair fell into silence again - this one slightly more comfortable than the last. 

“She wants me to talk to her,” Santana breathed heavily, “but I can’t find the words.”

Mercedes didn’t need to ask who Santana was talking about. She squeezed her hand. People seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

“What if you tried singing them instead?”

* * *

When Rachel and Quinn arrived in the choir room with Brittany in tow, Santana had almost run away. But Mercedes pulled her back, and held her in place while the others took a seat in the front row. Rachel and Quinn had chosen to sit either side of Brittany, and Santana wondered whether they had put just as much effort into forcing her to come here as Mercedes had to make her stay. 

Brad, who Santana assumed must secretly live in the air vents given that he was somehow readily available to accompany them on a Saturday, took his place at the piano. Santana balled her hands into fists as the opening chords trickled into the choir room, letting Mercedes take the opening verse like they’d agreed.

_Well, you almost had me fooled_

_Told me that I was nothing without you_

_Oh, but after everything you've done_

_I can thank you for how strong I have become_

_’Cause you brought the flames and you put me through hell_

_I had to learn how to fight for myself_

_And we both know all the truth I could tell_

_I'll just say this is I wish you farewell_

She could feel Brittany watching her, even though all she'd managed to do so far was twiddle her thumbs and rock back and forth on her feet while Mercedes hit note after note with perfect precision. Every instinct she had was urging her to leave the room before her verse arrived.

_I hope you're somewhere prayin’, prayin'_

_I hope your soul is changin', changin'_

_I hope you find your peace_

_Falling on your knees, prayin'_

Rachel and Quinn had given her a barely there nod of encouragement. Santana felt her throat close up as they slowly edged closer to the second verse, her hands gripping each other nervously in front of her stomach. It was her turn.

_I'm proud of who I am_

_No more monsters, I can breathe again_

The first few words were barely even there, but Brittany had hung on every note. Her eyes were flitting frantically between Santana, Rachel and Quinn as if it’d only just dawned on her that she was the only one of them who’d been left out of the loop. She almost wanted to stop the music and go to the other girl, but she knew she had to do this now, or she never would. 

_And you said that I was done_

_Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come_

Santana had almost screamed as she hit the final note, overtaken by a rage that felt both new yet achingly familiar. She wondered if it had been inside her this whole time, waiting to be let out. It acted like a life force, surging her forward as the piano picked up the pace behind her. 

_'Cause I can make it on my own, oh_

_And I don't need you, I found a strength I’ve never known_

_I’ll bring thunder, I'll bring rain, oh-oh_

_When I’m finished, they won't even know your name_

Glancing at Brittany, she noticed the uncertainty she’d seen in the girl only moments earlier was now replaced with something more akin to desperate curiosity. Santana felt her hands finally let go of each other, pulsing through the air as if the music was physically flowing through her body. It was truly freeing.

_You brought the flames and you put me through hell_

_I had to learn how to fight for myself_

But the freedom had been fleeting, and Santana could feel every fibre of her being slowly breaking apart from the inside out. Her eyes were locked on Brittany, waiting for something, _anything,_ that told her the girl understood what she was trying to say. Because music had always been how they communicated with each other when words weren’t enough. She needed that to be the case now, more than ever before.

_And we both know all the truth I could tell_

_I'll just say this is I wish you farewell_

Santana could feel the tears spilling from her eyes, but she didn’t care anymore. She didn’t care that Quinn and Rachel looked heartbroken, she didn’t care that Mercedes might figure it out. She didn’t even care that creepy Brad was in there with them baring witness to it all. Because there were tears trickling down Brittany's cheeks now too, and Santana knew the girl had pieced it all together. 

_I hope you're somewhere prayin’, prayin’_

It was only when Rachel and Quinn had risen from their seats to brace her from either side that Santana even realised she’d collapsed in on herself. They were singing along, holding her upright as she pushed the rest of the chorus out from beneath a string of heaving sobs. 

_I hope your soul is changin', changin’_

Mercedes stood beside Rachel, her powerful voice grounding them all as Santana started to choke on more and more of the notes. She couldn’t even look at Brittany anymore, instead overcome with the sudden emergence of every tear she’d ever trapped and the withering feeling of emptiness she’d swallowed ever since that night outside the bar. 

She hated him. She hated him for hurting her; for making her feel like a stranger in her own body. She hated him for destroying her sense of self so much she worried she'd never feel worthy in the arms of anyone, ever again. She hated him for robbing her of words that had always come so easily to her and moments of peace that would no longer come. She hated him for being there in the silence between her thoughts, and for corrupting her dreams with a darkness she knew would never fade. She hated him, because he took something from her that was not his to take.

_I hope you find your peace_

Most of all, she hated herself for letting him.

_Falling on your knees, prayin'_

Santana ran out of the room before the piano had even struck it’s final note. 


	11. There's a Hole Where Your Heart Lies (Brittany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany reads everything wrong, except Santana.

People didn’t always make sense to Brittany. 

It didn’t make sense how they would say one thing when they really meant something else, and that she was supposed to somehow just automatically know that without being told. 

It didn’t make sense when they would laugh at her, or call her stupid, because she saw more colours in the world than they did and that somehow made her naive. Naive, for believing in things they could never dream of but that she whole-heartedly knew to be true. 

Brittany S. Pierce wasn’t stupid. 

It was just that the world flew by too fast sometimes, until it got too confusing and she got left behind because nothing made any sense. 

Santana always made sense. 

Until she didn’t.

Brittany wondered if that meant she’d been left behind for good this time.

* * *

The trip home from Santana’s house was confusing, to say the least. 

They were watching a movie together, like they always used to after date night on Fridays. Except, this time Brittany wasn’t sure it’d end like it used to because Santana wasn’t her girlfriend anymore. Santana had a new girlfriend. A smarter, prettier girlfriend who could probably keep up with other people better than she could. A girlfriend that made Santana laugh at jokes Brittany never understood. A girlfriend that could keep up with Santana’s friends, even people like Rachel and Kurt, because she heard more than just white noise whenever either of them spoke. A girlfriend who was probably trailing kisses down her neck and begging her to hang up the phone on her _ex-girlfriend_ when she called the other night, even if they were supposed to still be best friends. 

Yeah, Brittany was pretty sure Santana wasn’t about to cheat on that girlfriend. Especially not with her.

It was getting late, both of them weary from the flights they’d caught to get back to Lima earlier that day. They were curled up closely together on the couch in Santana’s living room. Too close, Brittany thought, for someone who she knew had an amazing girlfriend waiting for her back home in New York. She didn’t care though, because she’d been waiting even longer. Brittany thought a part of her might always be waiting for Santana, actually. Even if they were supposed to be broken up, or whatever.

It was only when Brittany felt a weight collapsing against her shoulder and locks of raven hair pressing against her cheek that she realised the other girl had fallen asleep. Within a few minutes, she had drifted off too.

The next thing Brittany registered was a muffled cry, and cold hands that were scraping and clawing frantically at her mid-section. The pair had shifted in their sleep; lying flat against the arm of the couch with Brittany’s head somehow pillowed against the other girl’s chest. At first, she thought Santana was pushing her away because she’d woken up and freaked out about them cuddling together. But then a sharp nail caught her cheek and a leg booted her in the hip as the other girl writhed around in panic, and Brittany realised she was still fast asleep. 

She lifted Santana to an upright position, and braced herself behind the other girl on the couch. All Brittany could think to do was hold on tightly until Santana came to her senses, so she didn’t end up hurting herself. She pressed her chest flat into her back and tried to wake the girl, calling her name out at steady intervals until it finally earned a response a few minutes later. 

But the response had been to kick Brittany out, and now she was more confused than ever before. 

Santana had never hung the phone up on her, until Thursday night.

Santana had never kicked her out of the house, until Friday night. 

Brittany was confused. Santana had always been her constant, but now she was becoming a variable and she didn’t like that at all. Because variables could be unpredictable and there were way too many of them in her world already.

If bad things came in threes, Brittany wondered what Santana might bring to her on Saturday.

* * *

Brittany hadn’t meant to interrupt Sam and Rachel’s performance in the auditorium. 

Actually, she had meant to murder Rachel for looking at Santana like that and singing as if she knew the first thing about loving her. Because she didn’t, and she never would. 

So, she supposed, if murdering someone on stage technically meant interrupting their performance then, yeah.

She _had_ meant to.

She had also meant to yell at Sam for blindsiding her with that song. They’d spoken just hours earlier about how it was over between them, in what Brittany thought had been a _mutual_ agreement at the time. Because Brittany had left for MIT and neither of them had missed each other like they said they would. 

Brittany missed Santana every day. 

So it’d been lucky, she thought, that all Brittany had done in the end was snatch Sam’s guitar away and throw it in the trash outside. She figured she should go and get that back for him later, before the garbage man came and Sam got all upset about losing it. 

Brittany was sitting on top of the bleachers calmly thinking of all the ways she could rip out Rachel’s vocal chords without getting caught, when a leathery voice interrupted her thoughts. It wasn’t Santana’s, which hurt exactly as much as she expected it to. 

“Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?” Quinn asked, taking a seat a few feet away from her, “When the three of us were down on that field running suicide drills for Coach Sylvester while she threw raw meat at us.” 

“Yeah,” Brittany replied.

The pair sat in silence for a while, basking in the warmth of the midday sun.

“You know her better than I do now,” Brittany whispered, terrified she might be right, “I don’t like it.”

“Brittany, that’s _so_ not true.” Quinn shook her head.

“You know what happened to her though.” Brittany argued, “The thing she won’t tell me about.” 

Brittany watched for a reaction, and got what she needed solely from the quiver in Quinn’s lip and the shameful expression passing over her delicate features.

“That much, I do know,” Quinn rasped, “But it’s not my place to tell you Brittany, she’d-” 

"Whatever, Quinn.” Brittany cut her off.

She thought the silence between them might’ve settled there forever, but Brittany should’ve known she wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Hi Brittany, Quinn.” 

Ugh.

Rachel Berry was standing meekly in front of them, a few rows down. She climbed up and joined the pair, uninvited. The diva seemed terrified of what Brittany might do next, tucking herself in behind Quinn slightly as if using her as some sort of human shield. As the pair eyed her intently, Brittany contemplated pushing both of them off the bleachers. 

“I wanted to apologise, Brittany.” Rachel started, “I think my performance in the auditorium may have been somewhat misconstrued.” 

When Brittany didn’t say anything, Quinn added. “Brittany, I know you’re mad. And you’d be _totally_ forgiven for thinking otherwise, but Rachel actually had your best interests in mind back there. Okay?” 

“I was trying to help you guys,” Rachel mumbled, “Santana’s been moping around all morning because of you and Sam.” 

“Sam and I are over.” Brittany deadpanned, like it was obvious.

“Good,” Rachel straightened up, a bit more confident now. “Because, honestly, the last time you chose Sam it really hurt Santana and she doesn’t need that right now.” 

“Rachel, you’re not helping.” Quinn growled, to no avail. Brittany had already stood up and advanced toward the broadway starlet. Quinn jumped between them and forced the other blonde back down into her seat.

“You don’t get to talk about her like that,” Brittany huffed, “Either of you. You don’t get to talk about her like you know her better than me all of a sudden.” 

It was childish and she knew it, but still. It hurt. In high school, Santana would have preferred to swallow a razor blade every day if it meant not having to go near Rachel Berry, let alone be friends with her. And Quinn? She and Santana had taken every possible opportunity to tear each other down over the years, even if Brittany knew they secretly cared about each other. It wasn’t fair that these two were the people who got to be so much closer to Santana than she was now. It wasn’t fair, and it didn’t make _sense._

Rachel and Quinn stared at her with an odd, knowing look in their eyes and Brittany hated them even more.

“Look, Brittany,” Rachel started. She was softer this time, as if Brittany was a child who was just about to learn that Santa wasn’t real (or maybe he was and adults were just really terrible at telling him apart from other old bearded men). “Santana is my best friend, whether you like it or not.” 

Brittany felt an unbridled rage brewing within her at the comment. 

Rachel continued. “And she and Quinn have this weird enemies with benefits who love each other kind of relationship I’ll probably _never_ understand but-”

Brittany’s eyes widened almost comically. Suddenly the jealousy she had felt watching Santana and Quinn dancing dangerously close to one another at Mr Schue’s not-wedding came rushing back to her. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between them that night, how far they’d gone… 

Had there been other nights?

“What Rachel is _trying_ to say” Quinn interjected, “is that neither of us are… we’re not Santana’s person.” 

Well obviously not. Brittany tried her best not to show the flicker of hope she felt at the idea that _she_ might still be.

“She only gives people pieces of herself.” Rachel continued, hesitating slightly. “I know you feel like you guys have grown apart but… we’ve watched her drag herself around the loft for months, acting like if she throws a snarky comment our way every now and then none of us will notice how much pain she’s in.”

The words stung. Brittany hated the thought of Santana hiding pieces of herself. They’d come so far since that kind of thing had been their every day reality; linking pinkies in the hallway and pretending that scissoring was something all best friends did together at sleepovers so they didn’t have to talk about what it really meant. What could possibly have made Santana start closing herself off like that again? 

“But Brittany,” Rachel smiled kindly, “She’d give you everything if you asked her to.” 

It was a lovely sentiment, and one Brittany hoped desperately would still be as true as it had always been. But the fact remained that Santana, her _constant,_ had hung up on her and kicked her out of her house in the space of two days; and these people seemed to have information as to why that had happened, but they were refusing to share. It was information she felt she had a right to know.

Brittany was suddenly overcome with the need to prove a point to both of them.

“I don’t need you to tell me Santana’s not okay, Rachel,” she rolled her eyes, “She’s wearing jeans.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Jeans, when it’s nearly _summer_.” Brittany scowled, as if reprimanding a toddler. “Santana barely even wears jeans in winter because she thinks she looks way hotter in dresses, which isn’t technically true because she always looks amazing regardless of what clothes she’s in or out of… the point is, she’s wearing jeans. And she wore them at Breadsticks last night as well.”

She looked over at the pair to gauge their reaction. They both seemed to be communicating silently with one another, as if having just located a previously unknown missing piece of the puzzle Brittany wasn’t allowed to help with.

“Yeah.” she nodded defiantly, “So don’t either of you walk in here and tell me something is wrong with Santana. Because you might as well be telling me the sky is blue. What I want to know is _why_ the sky is blue. Can either of you tell me that?”

It had been met only with a deafening silence.

* * *

They’d dragged her back into the choir room when they didn’t really need to. Santana had asked her to come; of course she would. 

At first, it wasn’t really clear what was happening. Mercedes was singing and Santana was just… standing next to her, fidgeting and looking like she was about to fall apart. Brittany wanted to run to her and hold her close. But she was reminded of all the other times she’d been here, in this room, when Santana had used music to convey feelings that were too hard for her to put into words. She knew she had to sit and wait, so Santana could get whatever this was out of her system. Millions of scenarios passed through her mind all at once, each worse than the one before it. 

Brittany did her best to keep her desperation hidden because, as the girl in front of her whispered out the first few words of the second verse, she knew if she gave too much away Santana would stop. She focused on each line of the lyrics, carefully deconstructing every word and what it might mean for them.

_I’m proud of who I am._

She thought of Santana, shying away from physical contact at Breadsticks last night. Hanging her head in shame.

_No more monsters, I can breathe again._

She remembered how breathlessly Santana had clung onto her when she woke up from her nightmare, as if too afraid to let go.

Then Santana moved through the rest of the verse and Brittany looked to Quinn and Rachel for any additional clues that could help her piece together what all of this meant. Because she’d started to come to a conclusion on her own and she needed someone to laugh at her for it and call her stupid, like they always did. Otherwise, it would mean she was right. 

Both girls simply looked proud of Santana, and that confused her even more. 

_You brought the flames and you put me through hell_

Brittany thought back to that phone call, when Santana’s voice had been wearier than she remembered. Like she’d let the light inside of her flicker out over the months they’d been apart. 

_I had to learn how to fight for myself_

She fought the urge to touch her cheek, remembering how fiercely Santana had lashed out in her sleep.

_And we both know all the truth I could tell_

Santana had been so afraid to tell her why she’d hung up the phone. 

_I’ll just say this is I wish you farewell._

She watched Santana crumble in front of her, and Brittany wasn’t so sure she wanted to hear the truth after all. 

Not if this is what it would cost.

Quinn and Rachel were out of their chairs and holding Santana up before Brittany could even react properly. She wanted to go to her too, but knew the girl needed to finish this as much as she needed to let her. 

The blonde felt a single tear trickling down her cheek, unsure what else to do other than sit and watch as her best friend imploded right in front of her. 

The phone call.

The way she shied away from physical contact at Breadsticks. 

The nightmare, because Brittany had been lying on top of her.

Santana didn’t wear dresses anymore. 

Then the song was over, and Santana was gone.

* * *

Brittany found her outside in the empty parking lot. 

She was crying and fumbling with her car keys as she tried desperately to fit them in the lock; hands too shaky to hold them steady enough. Brittany approached carefully; knowing Santana hadn’t spotted her yet. The keys slipped out of the other girl’s hands and she started smashing her fists furiously against the car window in retaliation. Brittany bolted forward, hearing the unmistakeable sound of the glass cracking under the pressure a fraction of a second before she’d been able to stop it.

She spun Santana around, copping two frenzied fists to the chest before the other girl registered that the surface beneath her hands had changed. Santana sobbed uncontrollably; hands bloodied and beaten, trembling against Brittany’s chest. She was rambling under her breath so brokenly that Brittany couldn’t understand what any of the words were.

Brittany pulled her in impossibly close, locking their hips together and steadying Santana against her body. She brought her hands up to cup both sides of the other girl’s face and tugged her in until their foreheads were touching. Santana had her eyes closed. Her breath hitched at the contact, still completely overcome with emotion. This wasn’t like all of the other times throughout their lives, when Santana had been upset and come running to her; craving the unrivalled comfort she’d always found in Brittany’s embrace. Normally, Brittany would simply hold her and whisper soothing words into her ear until she calmed down. This time, as she felt Santana’s body pulse against her with every aching breath, Brittany was petrified that might not be enough. 

She had to try.

“Santana,” Brittany breathed, brushing their noses together, “Santana. Open your eyes.”

But Santana had simply shaken her head furiously, grasping at Brittany’s shirt and balling it up in her hands. Brittany encircled her arms around the other girl’s waist and held her tightly, determined.

“Santana,” she persisted, “Open your eyes.”

She felt Santana suck in a deep lung full of air, gasping as she released it only moments later. The girl loosened her hold on her shirt and slowly tipped her head up until their eyes locked. 

Brittany had never seen her look so lost. 

Then Santana was sobbing again, and Brittany was catching them both. She stroked the back of Santana’s hair almost subconsciously and felt their bodies crashing backwards against the car door as the other girl tumbled into her. Her shirt was soaked with tears; Santana continuing to sob relentlessly into her chest. 

Brittany felt a bitter sense of relief as she held onto the girl, because _this_ was the Santana she knew. The Santana who wasn’t holding anything back. The Santana who gave everything to her, and to whom she gave everything in return. But now that she had it, she hated it. And she hated the monster who had done this to the girl she loved.

“It’s okay,” Brittany cooed, pressing barely there kisses atop Santana’s head and gripping her so tightly it felt like their limbs were tangled together. “You’re safe.” 

Brittany felt Santana release a gut-wrenching, _agonised_ gasp and could only pray the other girl believed her.

* * *

They were lying in Santana’s old bedroom with the curtains drawn and the lights out. Brittany was flat on her back, with Santana curled into her side. It’d taken a few hours, but eventually the smaller girl had run out of tears to cry. 

Brittany had learned of the night Rachel got drunk.

Of the search Santana had been in the middle of, trying to find the girl’s phone.

Of the man in the baseball cap, with the Southern accent. 

Of the phone call she made to Quinn, terrified the girl might not pick up.

Brittany wasn’t brave enough to ask why Santana hadn’t called her instead. She wasn’t even sure it mattered anymore. 

“I met him at the diner,” came the small voice that was pressing into her shoulder, “weeks before the bar.”

Brittany turned her head to look at the girl, discovering a pair of wide eyes that were pleading for her to listen. She took Santana’s hand in hers and nodded for her to go on.

“He wasn’t…” she breathed, shakily, “He saw me and Dani together. Said it wasn’t natural.”

Brittany felt herself tense underneath Santana at the mention of the _other_ blonde. Up until now, it had been easy to forget she even existed. She swallowed the jealousy and held onto Santana even more tightly. Because, no matter what, Brittany was still her best friend. That was who Santana needed her to be right now. 

So she stroked circles against the back of the other girl’s hand and waited, sensing that Santana still had more to say. 

“I was rude to him about it,” Santana swatted furiously at a tear that was threatening to spill out of her eye, “I think that’s why he…” 

Brittany rolled them over so that the two were both on their sides now, facing each other. She wiped the tear from Santana’s eye and let her hand linger against her cheek, sighing as she felt the other girl lean into it.

“Do you remember when Finn outed you?” Brittany asked.

“Kind of hard to forget, Britt.” Santana laughed shakily, and Brittany couldn’t help but smile bashfully; embarrassed by how she’d phrased the question. 

“You were so upset,” Brittany whispered softly, “Because you thought you deserved it, because you’d been mean to him a lot that week.”

Santana averted her gaze, and Brittany knew she remembered the conversation they’d had after the commercial aired. A conversation where they lay in almost exactly the same position as they were now, and Brittany had been forced to explain to Santana that no number of childish insults were comparable to the act of placing someone in the kind of real and present danger caused by outing them in front of a school full of homophobic bullies. 

“I’m not sure what that has to do with any of this,” Santana mumbled, shuffling back slightly. 

Brittany could feel her retreating again. She brushed their noses together, curling an arm over her waist and pulling Santana in snugly. She felt the other girl exhale in relief, relaxing back into the mattress with her.

“Just because you said something mean,” Brittany sighed, repeating the same exact words she’d said in their senior year. “Doesn’t mean you deserved what he did, Santana.”

Brittany buried her head into Santana’s neck, pressing her lips into soft skin and tracing her fingers up and down her spine. She felt the other girl shaking softly into her, and knew she’d started crying again. So she held onto her and waited, like she’d been doing all afternoon. 

“I didn’t know what to say to you,” Santana choked out eventually, prompting Brittany to pull back. “When you thought I’d been body-snatched.” 

Brittany’s stomach dropped as she took in the empty expression on Santana’s face, recalling the phone conversation they’d had earlier that week. 

“That’s how it feels,” Santana cried, “Like they’ve swapped me out with a crappier version of myself.”

Brittany held Santana in her arms again, mentally admonishing herself for her such thoughtless words and even poorer timing. She held on tightly, until eventually the other girl fell asleep.

She had never felt so stupid.

* * *

It was near midnight on Saturday, and Brittany had been leaving the grocery store with two bags of food piled under each arm. The girls hadn’t eaten since lunch that day, and when Brittany had done a quick scan of the Lopez’ family kitchen she discovered there was no food in the house. She wanted to ensure that when Santana woke up, she could give her whatever she needed.

After she finished loading her bags into the back of the car, she’d turned around to find a man running towards her with his arm outstretched. 

He wore a pair of denim pants and a baseball cap. 

Brittany stiffened, before telling herself this was Ohio. There were plenty of men who looked like that here.

As the man reached her, he had curled his teeth in a sickening smile. 

“Is this yours?” he drawled, a thick southern accent seeping through every word and making Brittany feel sick to her stomach. She looked down to find him holding her phone in the palm of his hand, lock screen glowing with the picture she and Santana had taken together on Brittany’s last night at McKinley. She must’ve forgotten to pick it up from the counter or something.

“Thanks,” she took it gratefully, allowing herself to relax again as she moved towards the driver’s seat door. 

It wasn’t him. 

“Hope that pretty girlfriend of yours appreciates you doing the midnight snack run like this,” came the voice from behind her again. 

Brittany stopped in her tracks, turning around to find green orbs piercing into her and a smirk forming on the man’s lips. 

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Nothing.” he winked, tipping his hat and disappearing out of the carpark.

Brittany knew she shouldn’t have done it.

She needed to get back to Santana’s house and be there when the girl woke up.

But she couldn’t, because nothing about what had just happened was a coincidence. It _was_ him. She was sure of it. And if he was in Lima, then Santana would never feel safe again.

So she followed him.

* * *

Brittany wasn’t sure where she’d end up as she trailed discretely behind a stranger along the empty streets of Lima in the middle of the night. 

But she wasn’t expecting to end up at the McKinley High football field.

Half of the pitch was closed off; under construction because Coach Bieste had somehow convinced Principal Sylvester that they needed extra special turf for the guys to fall on or something. Brittany watched from the car as the man crept around the construction site, checking over his shoulder for any random bystanders. She ducked down when he looked over towards her, only sitting back up when she was confident she hadn’t been seen. 

Brittany wasn’t stupid, but it may have taken her slightly longer than it should’ve to realise the kind of danger she might be in if she was right about this man. So she texted the only person she could think of who was probably just about shady enough to help her right now. 

_Brittany: You up?_

The response was instantaneous.

_Puck: For you? Always ;)_

_Brittany: Meet me at the football field. Santana’s in trouble._

_Puck: Be there in 5._

Brittany took a deep breath in and tossed her phone back onto the passenger seat. Five minutes, she could wait five minutes. She watched the clock as the minutes counted down, painfully slowly, and it suddenly dawned on her that she had absolutely no idea what her next steps were. Why was she even here?

When the door had clicked open and a hand was yanking her out onto the gravel, Brittany kicked herself for having forgotten to lock it again. It was him; the man in the baseball cap. He pushed her back against the car and shook her by the shoulders. 

“Why are you following me?” he barked, “What do you want?” 

Before she could even manage a response, the man had been yanked away from her. Puck lunged at him, smashing his face against the trunk of the car and knocking him out cold in one blow. 

“As far as booty calls go,” he panted proudly, “this was a first for me.”

“Thanks for coming.” Brittany straightened her jumper, stepping away from the man on the ground. 

“Wanna tell me who the creepy dude is?” Puck asked, watching as Brittany popped open the trunk and started rifling around inside. 

Eventually, her head popped up and she held up some spray paint and a piece of rope.

“No,” she smirked, raising an eyebrow at the former football player. “But I can tell you what to do with him?”

Puck grinned.

* * *

And _that’s_ how a prospective Texan senate candidate was found hanging upside down from the goalpost of the McKinley High football field at 4am on a Sunday morning. They'd painted a few nasty words on him as well, for good measure. 

Brittany wouldn't go so far as to say she was proud of what she'd done, but she certainly didn't regret it either.

Sue Sylvester sat opposite her in the principal’s office, scrutinising her with an indeterminable look on her face. Brittany could feel Santana and Rachel watching them from outside. Apparently they had been the ones to find him, though she wasn’t exactly sure how that happened; or why they both seemed to be covered in mud. 

“Brittany.” Sue clasped her hands in front of her on the desk, “If we overlook the apparent glitch in the matrix that triggered my signing off on your baffling early acceptance into MIT for a second, I think we can both agree I’ve always done my best to make it incredibly clear to you how stupid I find you to be, have I not?” 

The words stung, like they always did. But Brittany held her head high, confident that her decision this time had been the right one. 

“Once or twice.” she nodded. 

For once, Sue actually looked lost for words. She shook her head in disbelief, leaning forward in her chair. 

“A baseball cap, Brittany?” she gaped, “You’re telling me that I just listened to you wax poetic about you and your latest lesbian love drama with muddy Little Miss Sandbags over there,” Sue jerked her head toward Santana, who was watching them both closely, “For over _thirty five minutes,_ all so you could reveal to me that, ultimately, you stalked, attacked and tied up a man you’ve never met on  McKinley High School property in the middle of the night because he happened to be wearing a _baseball cap_?”

Brittany’s eyes flickered out towards the foyer. Santana’s face was clouded with so much confusion and concern over the other girl’s actions that it told Brittany all she needed to know. 

It wasn’t him. 

Fuck.

Sue was watching her with blatant contempt and suddenly Brittany felt a lot less confident than she had been a few seconds ago. She took a deep breath in, trying to find the right words. What else was there to say? This was _bad._

“Well,” she cleared her throat, “When you put it that way it makes me sort of sound like a crazy person.”


	12. The Thing You Love Most is the Detriment (Santana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany keeps disappearing, Quinn's a softie, Santana goes boom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who have left lovely comments on this story so far! The next couple of chapters will be back to Santana's POV, but we'll see a bit more of Brittany again later on. Hope you enjoy :)

Santana was no stranger to bad decisions.

She had a tendency to do things to people that were kind of mean.

Even if they totally made sense to her at the time.

She had a tendency to hurt people, deeply.

Even if she also had a tendency to regret it later.

Did that make her a terrible person?

* * *

When Santana woke, it was to complete darkness and an empty bed. Her body ached. Apparently when you suddenly release every thought and feeling you’ve been hiding from for months it can turn into the emotional equivalent of that really gross scene from The Exorcist. She felt awful, but a sadistic part of her was quietly relieved by that. 

Because awful was still a _feeling._

There was a tap at her window. As Santana rolled over, she nearly jumped out of her skin. A pair of beady eyes were glowing back at her in the dark. 

“Fuck,” Santana cursed. Rachel mouthed an apology, gesturing at the locked window in a silent request to be let in. 

Santana sat up, smirking. She shook her head. 

Rachel tilted her head back like a child who was seconds away from a temper tantrum. “Please,” she mouthed, pouting. 

“Fine.” Santana crawled over to the edge of the bed and unlatched the window so the smaller girl could climb in, then flopped back down onto the mattress and closed her eyes. She felt the bed dip as Rachel lay down next her. There was a huff, and Santana cracked one eye open to find the creepy hobbit staring at her. 

Again.

“Berry,” she groaned, “You’ve gotta stop doing that.” 

“Sorry,” Rachel murmured.

Santana really wanted to close her eyes. Her body felt like it needed to sleep for twelve years to recharge after everything she’d let go of today. But she knew the other girl had more to say, and their sacred nighttime bonding rituals regrettably meant that neither of them would be getting any sleep until she did. With a defiant grunt, Santana repositioned her head on the pillow and looked at Rachel properly this time. 

“Well?” she raised an eyebrow, impatient. 

“I couldn’t sleep after what happened in the auditorium today.” Rachel sighed, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders.

“Why?” Santana asked, “Because you think I’m mad at you?” 

“ _Are_ you mad at me?” Rachel probed.

Santana sighed. Of course she was mad at her. Mad at her for pulling such a senseless stunt, which stemmed from an even _more_ aggravating tendency to jam her humongous nose into places where it wasn’t welcome. 

Santana Lopez was really mad at Rachel Berry. 

Or at least, she wanted to be really mad at Rachel Berry. 

But Rachel Berry had stuck her nose in because she cared, even if she did it in that totally awful way of hers that always made things worse. Then Rachel Berry apologised to Brittany, who hates her, because she cared; and brought the blonde to the choir room, because she cared. Then she held Santana up while she was falling down and stood behind her while she fell apart. Because she cared. Ah, crap.

“No,” Santana folded, in spite of herself, “I’m not.” 

Rachel let out a sigh of relief and cuddled into her. It wasn’t like it had been with Brittany only hours earlier, whose soft reverent touches made Santana feel like the world around them could cave in and she’d still be perfectly safe. No, Rachel was a comfort Santana fell into the same way one wears an old hoodie; because its warm and familiar and all your other clothes are in the dryer. As much as Santana was okay with having the other girl there, it wasn’t enough to help her sleep tonight. Because Rachel was just a reminder of who _wasn’t_ there, and she must’ve sensed that too.

“Where’s Brittany?” 

Santana wasn’t sure either of them would be sleeping at all tonight.

* * *

It was just after 3am on Sunday morning when Santana finally gave up pretending Brittany’s disappearance wasn’t bothering her and went for a walk. Rachel trailed along behind her, drowning in the old Cheerios jacket she’d borrowed from the back of Santana’s wardrobe. The diva was furious she’d been made to get out of bed so early, but when Santana announced she was going for a walk they both knew she wouldn’t be going alone. 

Santana didn’t walk alone at night. 

But she had to get out of that bedroom before that feeling got to her again. That… irritating niggle that had wormed its way into her chest like a parasite, ever since Rachel told her about that godawful unreturned phone call. It had been taunting her for weeks, whispering louder and louder that Brittany didn’t give a damn about her anymore. Now, it was laughing its head off at her for being so stupid as to think Brittany would still be there when she woke up tonight. She had to walk it off. 

“Santana,” Rachel whined, “You said ‘a walk around the _block_ ,’ not the whole of Lima.” 

“Shut it, Troll,” Santana rolled her eyes, “I’m still mad at you.”

She heard Rachel’s footsteps falter behind her as she continued up the street. 

“But… you said you _weren’t_ mad at me,” came a wobbly voice. 

Santana smirked. Sometimes it was just too easy.

They were nearing the McKinley High football field when Santana stopped so abruptly in her tracks that Rachel, sulking and kicking stones along the gravel, had practically crashed into the back of her. Santana strained to get a better look at the object a few hundred metres away that had gained her attention, stranded in the dark on the side of the road. 

Brittany’s car. 

Rachel spotted it a few moments later. “Is that?” she trailed off.

Santana didn’t respond, overtaken by panic. She bolted towards the car, with Rachel hot on her heels.

The car was empty. Before they could speculate about what that meant, a deep, blood-curdling plea for help echoed through the night. Rachel and Santana whirled around to look for the source.

It was coming from the football field.

They crept along the tree line, grateful for the construction fencing which was mostly obscuring them from view. Ducking under some yellow safety tape, Santana cut across a cordoned off section of the field so they could stay hidden, ignoring the disgusting squelches underneath her feet as she traipsed through the mud that covered the turf-less patch. The man’s screams grew louder. It sounded like he was begging someone to stop. Stop what?

“Santana,” Rachel whispered, “I don’t think we’re supposed to be walking here. There’s a ‘no entry’ sign.”

Santana ignored her, knowing the girl would follow anyway. They found an opening in the fence that allowed them to observe what was going on, hopefully without being seen by anyone. What they saw made both of their jaws drop in unison.

Noah Puckerman was stringing a man up by his ankles from one of the goal posts. Beside him, Brittany stood watching with her arms folded. Santana narrowed her eyes. Puck may have been doing the heavy lifting, but it was pretty clear who was running the show. 

“Oh my God,” Rachel cried as the man screeched out desperately. Santana clapped a hand over her mouth before more noise came out, too confused to do anything other than watch the scene unfold in front of her. 

They remained there until Puck and Brittany disappeared from view. Santana registered the faint sound of a car engine turning on, and a motorbike screeching away into the night. 

What the fuck had just happened? 

She looked at Rachel. 

“We should help him, right?” Santana asked, uncertain. A million things were going through her head right now, as her sleep deprived brain ran the numbers to try and work out how Brittany had gone from lying in bed next to her to literally torturing a man within a few hours. There had to be a reason for it.

“Of course we should, Santana.” Rachel admonished her, “The man is hanging upside down covered in spray paint. We can’t just leave him there!” 

“Well obviously not you stupid Dwarf,” Santana sniped back, “but I don’t even know how we’d get him down… I mean, what if we drop him and he breaks his neck?”

“Oh my God,” Rachel gawked, “We’d be murderers.”

Before they had a chance to figure out their next move, the floodlights surrounding the field whirred to life and the pair found themselves completely blinded. An authoritative, sardonic voice dripped through a megaphone which Santana knew could only belong to one person. Seriously, how did this godawful weekend manage to keep getting _worse?_

“Give it up swizzle sticks,” the voice barked from across the field, “I can see your bony little shadows hiding behind that fence, so you might as well spare me the dramatics and come explain yourselves.” 

Rachel look desperately to Santana, who knew there was only one option here.

“Run.” 

Santana grabbed Rachel and tugged her sideways to make their escape. What she hadn’t noticed, however, was the three-foot deep sludge-filled pit sitting a few steps to their right. She tripped and tumbled into the hole, taking an unsuspecting Rachel down with her. 

The next thing she registered was a horrified scream, as the girl next to her frantically batted the dirt from her eyes. Rachel sloshed around in the pit, desperately trying to get back onto her feet but falling down over and over again. A fitting metaphor for both of their lives right now, Santana thought.

“ _That’s_ why it said no entry, Santana,” Rachel screeched at her, “NO. ENTRY.” 

Santana winced at the sound of the girl’s voice, rubbing her forehead. She was pretty sure she’d bumped it on the way down. She used one of her cleaner fingers to carefully wipe the mud away from around her eyes and opened them begrudgingly; well aware they were about to be discovered by the last person in the world she wanted to see right now.

Sue Sylvester.

* * *

That particular Sunday morning still made very little sense to Santana. 

She had waited at McKinley while Brittany was inside talking to Sue, despite Rachel bugging her incessantly about going home so they could shower. Santana needed to know what was going on, because this wasn’t Brittany. Yeah sure, Brittany fantasised about hurting people all the time. Just because she generally came off as sweeter than Santana, didn’t mean she couldn't be just as savage. It was one of the many reasons they’d become best friends in the first place. But _actually_ hurting people? That had always been more Santana’s style (and even she wouldn’t have gone this far). 

Something was off. 

When Brittany stormed out of the office a few moments later, Santana was a little surprised by how quickly the blonde had bypassed her. They were all the way out in the hallway before Santana had been able to catch up.

“Britt.” she gently caught Brittany by the arm, “What happened in there?” 

“Nothing, it’s stupid. I’m stupid.” Brittany waved her away dismissively.

“Hey,” Santana breathed, “Don’t talk like that. Whatever it was, I’m sure you had your reasons, _genius.”_

Santana had hoped reminding Brittany of her literal-MIT-genius-status might pull her out of that trap she always fell into, where she thought the rest of the world knew better than her just because she saw things differently, but it didn’t work. Brittany was avoiding eye contact, and Santana was reminded of that Friday night outside Breadsticks when the girl’s face had been clouded with the same kind of… something. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, starting to get worried.

“I’m fine, Santana.”

“No seriously, what’s going on?” Santana pushed, knowing the other girl was holding back. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

“You’re one to talk.” Brittany clapped back. 

It had slipped out by accident; Santana could tell from the instant wave of regret that washed over Brittany’s face. Still, she couldn’t help but be hurt by it. 

“Yeah,” she bit down on whatever anguish she felt over the barb, _knowing_ it had been intended to distract and determined not to let it. “Well, I told you mine. You tell me yours.”

If Santana had been expecting any sort of response, it certainly wasn’t for Brittany to turn around and walk away. She gulped back tears and watched her go. 

Another fitting metaphor, perhaps.

Santana didn’t know what any of it meant, and was honestly struggling to come to terms with the possibility that she might’ve been reduced to a supporting character in the complex 7-dimensional universe Brittany lived in, rather than a permanent resident there like she used to be. But she put all of that in a box for later too. Because even if Brittany didn’t want her help right now, Santana knew what had to be done.

She turned around and marched straight back into the office of one Sue Sylvester.

* * *

It hadn’t taken much to win Sue over in the end.

The woman could be a callous bitch, but Santana spoke her language.

Besides, even a callous bitch could see when there were two sides to a story. Santana had been happy to work with her to fill in some of the blanks. 

So when Rod Russelton, Texan senate candidate and victim of Brittany’s midnight act of terror, strutted into Sue’s office on Monday morning threatening lawsuits and criminal charges, Santana was confident they had already won. She sat calmly in the chair next to him and let Sue do the talking.

“Mr. Russelton,” she started, “May I call you Ray?” 

“Rod,” he corrected. 

“Not so sure about that.” Sue hummed, tucking her hands in her pockets and stepping up from her chair towards the man. “Now, I brought you here today in the hope that we might come to a mutually beneficial agreement, Mr Roshington.” 

“It’s _Russelton,_ and there’ll be no agreement,” he spat, “Those savages need to be arrested. You’re running a loose ship here, Principal Sylvester.” 

“Okay, first of all,” she smiled charmingly, leaning on the edge of the desk. “I do feel the need to point out that the people in question graduated McKinley long before I took over as principal, thereby removing any right you had in using them to pass comment on what kind of ‘ship’ I run. Tight, by the way, in case you were wondering.” 

Santana rolled her eyes. Leave it to Sue to turn a potential lawsuit into a pissing contest. 

“Aside from that…” Sue stood up, trailing off as she inched towards her trophy case. Santana was concerned they might’ve distracted her from the task at hand. Apparently, it had just been a power move. 

“Another failing graduate whom I take no responsibility for,” Sue spun back around and winked at Santana, “has brought to my attention that a group from Lima Heights Adjacent may or may not be running an illicit weekend drug operation from the old equipment shed at the back of my football field. That wouldn’t have anything to do with why an upstanding citizen such as yourself happened to be trespassing on McKinley High School property on Saturday night in the first place, would it Remus?”

When Rod tensed up in his chair, Santana knew they had him. Sue, however, was apparently looking for a slam dunk. She leant in uncomfortably close to the man, drawing her voice back into a dangerous whisper. 

“Not to mention,” she pondered, “I can’t imagine the kind of bad press you might attract when people hear about how you yanked a young unsuspecting girl out of a parked car and physically assaulted her for no reason other than that you thought she might be following you.”

Santana felt her stomach drop, hearing that piece of the puzzle for the first time. It made her sick to think Brittany might’ve been subjected to even a tenth of the fear she felt when _he_ had done the same thing to her outside the club that night. Physically assaulted, Sue had said. Her mind ran frantically through all the potential actions a term like that might entail. How far had he gone?

“I think we can agree to let bygones be bygones.” The man agreed.

“Excellent,” Sue grinned, “I’d shake your hand, but you disgust me. Please leave immediately.” 

She gestured towards the door, and he hurried out.

“You too, Sandbags.” Sue sat back down at her desk, satisfied with a job well done. “Unless you have another pointless personal drama you plan on forcibly involving me in?” 

Santana ignored the jibe and moved towards the door, but paused when she spotted Becky Jackson at the reception desk counting graduation caps for this week’s ceremony. 

‘Stupid,’ Brittany had called herself. Santana was alarmed by how naturally it had slipped out of her. Other people called Brittany stupid, but _Brittany_ had never called Brittany stupid before. Sure, she had to repeat her senior year but that was mostly because she’d been too busy dancing, scissoring Santana and becoming internet famous to focus on her studies. That didn’t make her stupid. Santana recalled the night after Regionals, when Brittany had been upset about leaving for MIT, because it meant she’d technically never graduate high school now. Which, in a totally backwards way she interpreted to mean that she was exactly like everyone had always thought. 

Stupid. 

Turning around, Santana poked her head back into Sue’s office. 

“Actually, Sue,” she said carefully, “There is one other thing you might be able to help me with.”

* * *

The first day at McKinley hadn’t gone too badly, even if Santana and Brittany seemed to have resorted to only speaking in the company of other people now. Santana wasn’t sure what to make of it, but every time they all met in the choir room Brittany still chose to sit next to her in the back row. That had to count for something. 

It was nearly 7pm. Santana picked up the stack of plates from the kitchen bench and moved into the dining room. Despite her protests, her mother had insisted on having Santana’s friends over for dinner. Something about how she never got to meet any of the New Directions while Santana was in school because she was still pretending she hated them, or whatever… Thankfully, Maribel had given her control over the guest list.That meant the only people coming tonight were Quinn (and her useless boy-toy), Rachel, Kurt, Mercedes and Mike Chang. 

The night passed by without any appearance from Brittany, which was apparently something her mother wasn’t gracious enough to let slide. They were cleaning up in the kitchen while everyone got gradually tipsier in the living room next door.

“I hope you at least invited her, Santana, _”_ Maribel commented as she scrubbed away at the dishes in the sink.

Santana immediately felt guilty. She hadn’t known how to ask.

“She wouldn’t have come,” Santana bit her lip, taking a plate from her mother and drying it. 

“You didn’t give her a choice?” her Mother raised an eyebrow. 

“No, because I’m _not_ a choice for her anymore,” Santana grabbed the last of the plates from her mother, drying it furiously as she recalled how effortlessly the other girl had walked away from her, “I’m barely even an option.”

Stacking the plates together, Santana carried them over to the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen in the hope of escaping the conversation entirely. 

Her Mom had simply followed her.

“I think the young girl I found holding my daughter while she cried in our living room on Friday night might disagree with you there.”

Shit. So she _had_ seen all of that. Santana shut the cupboard door and looked back to her Mom, who was standing silently with her arms folded awaiting a suitable response from her daughter. 

What was she supposed to say? That Brittany was acting strange and she didn’t know how to fix it? That she thought she knew why, but might be jumping to conclusions? People around them had always struggled to understand where the blonde was coming from when she acted out, but Brittany was like a second language to her. It was like breathing, or singing. 

Instinctual. 

Every instinct she had was telling her something was wrong with the girl, but that hardly mattered anymore. Why should she trust her instincts when they’d led her so far astray lately? What if Brittany was fine, and this was just another thing she was about to get wrong? She couldn’t take that risk. 

But her mother was giving her that _look_ and it wasn’t long before Santana found herself shrinking under the weight of it. She crossed her arms, looking away abashedly. 

“Something’s wrong,” Santana sighed, “But I can’t read her like I used to.” 

Her mother had simply stepped forward and tucked a finger under her chin, lifting her up so they were looking at each other properly.

“Can’t,” she smiled kindly, “Or won’t?” 

Then an obnoxiously loud laugh had come from the other room, interrupting them. Santana figured Quinn must be turning up the charm in front of that Biff guy again. It was nauseating. Rachel traipsed tipsily into the kitchen a few moments later, looking like a kicked puppy.

“You okay?” Santana probed.

“Yeah,” Rachel grimaced, pouring herself a glass of water as another of Quinn’s excruciatingly fake laughs echoed through the kitchen, “Just enjoying the show.”

Rachel rested her head grumpily on the Latina girl’s shoulder for a few moments, then excused herself to go and lie down in Santana’s room upstairs. Maribel quirked a curious eyebrow towards her daughter over the exchange, to which she silently shook her head. That was a conversation they _really_ didn’t have time for right now.

* * *

Santana found her in an empty classroom, scrawling numbers and figures across a chalkboard like something out of _Beautiful Mind_. It was lunch time, and everyone was supposed to be meeting at the Lima Bean but Santana had bailed the minute she realised Brittany was missing. She watched silently from the door as the girl’s whole body slumped forward against the board in front of her. 

“Hey,” Santana cleared her throat, “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Brittany glanced towards her, and Santana did her best not to be put off by the reluctant half-smile she got in lieu of a hello. The blonde turned back to the chalkboard and started scratching away at one of the numbers with her thumb, frowning and pencilling something else in it’s place. 

“What are you doing?” Santana enquired, arms folded. She always knew Brittany was a genius, but she hadn't quite adjusted to the whole _math_ genius thing yet. It was a little weird. She never realised Brittany even liked math.

“I’m trying to prove the Riemann hypothesis,” Brittany sighed, dropping her piece of chalk back down in front of her.

Santana made a mental note to Google what that meant later on. She could only assume it was some sort of mathematical torture device, given that it seemed to be making Brittany so miserable. 

“Who’s forcing you to do this?” Santana asked, struggling to veil her concern. She was vaguely aware that she might be pushing her luck. This was the first time they’d spoken alone since Sunday morning.

“My colleagues at MIT,” Brittany had simply sulked in response. She flopped down into the empty chair behind the teacher’s desk, “They said I have the most ‘gifted mind in a generation.’”

“Well, I could’ve told you that,” Santana shrugged, sitting on top of the desk so she could face the girl properly. 

To Santana’s relief, the comment had coaxed a real smile out of the blonde for the first time since she’d entered the room. They sat quietly for a bit, content with each other’s company; until Santana decided now was as good a time as any to rip the band aid off.

“You know we’re eventually going to have to talk about what happened on Saturday night, right?” she raised an eyebrow. 

Brittany tensed up immediately. 

“Britt, please,” Santana urged, “It’s just _me._ You can talk to me.”

“Not about this,” Brittany shook her head, “It’s too embarrassing.” 

“Try me.” Santana quipped, the challenge clear in her voice. 

She could see Brittany about to choke on her words, and it was kind of freaking her out a bit. Her eyes had begun to reach Rachel-Berry-levels of mopey, and for that reason alone Santana knew she wouldn’t be letting the other girl leave until they talked this out. Whatever it was, they could handle it together.

“He was… from Texas,” Brittany whispered cautiously. Santana had to lean in closer just to hear it.

“Not really a good enough reason to string someone up by their ankles, babe,” Santana laughed fondly, not quite catching the term of endearment in time. 

Shit. 

Luckily, Brittany let it slide. She glanced up, locking eyes with Santana so intently that she wasn’t sure where to look. 

“And he… complimented a picture I had of… you… on my phone,” Brittany dragged the words out like they were leading to some big reveal.

It came not with a bang, but a whimper.

“And he was wearing a baseball cap.”

Santana braced herself for the fall. Baseball caps were not her friend anymore, and the mere mention of them had proven more than enough to knock her into the abyss lately. But as her brain pieced Brittany’s words together, she felt herself tumbling off a different kind of ledge this time. One with a net at the bottom, where she was bouncing around in a pit filled with shock, bittersweet relief and a host of other conflicting feelings. A part of her wanted to laugh, another wanted to cry. How marvellous, she thought, that _this_ was the reason Brittany had been avoiding her since the other night. Not because of Santana, but because she’d done something impulsive and reckless and _downright insane_ …

For her?

Santana could feel the blonde waiting timidly for a reaction, as if she was expecting to be reprimanded. But how could she even begin to think about doing that when the other girl had done something so completely selfless? Something that had put _Brittany_ in harm’s way in the process. 

Well, maybe she could reprimand her for that part. 

Santana hoisted herself off the desk and walked towards the board. She grabbed the chalk from Brittany’s hand, using the moment as an excuse to pull the blonde up with her. Brittany followed curiously, and Santana knew she had the girl hooked. She frowned up at the sea of equations until she found an empty space. 

“What if,” she pondered, scrawling on the board, “you put a number four in there. Would that work?” 

“No,” Brittany laughed, “Not even close.” 

“Okay, then.” Santana chuckled, handing the chalk back, “Worth a shot.”

They were going to be just fine.

* * *

Except, they weren’t. Because Brittany kept going AWOL, sulking over her equations and refusing to participate in any of the Glee club’s performances. 

When Santana found her using the chess club to re-enact a life sized version of some famous world championship game she’d never heard of and complaining about a life of never-ending math equations, she decided enough was enough.

She cornered Brittany in front of Glee club, and they performed _Valerie_ together like they were fifteen again.

The minute she started dancing, Brittany had lit up like a forest fire. 

She smiled at Santana when the song finished, as if she was seeing her for the very first time.

It was everything.

* * *

Santana should’ve known it wouldn’t last. 

They were in the choir room, eating the churros Santana had blackmailed Puck into buying for them as payment for the very real jail sentence she’d scraped him out of earlier that week. Not that she’d done it for him, but she’d be an idiot to pass on an opportunity for a free churro.

“I’m not happy there, Santana.” 

It was little more than a whisper. Brittany was watching her out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge what the response might be.

The admission wasn’t a surprise to Santana; not after what she’d seen this week. Brittany had never been this deflated in as long as she’d known her, including that time in freshman year when she caught Lord Tubbington auctioning off her swimwear to fund his new Vicodin addiction (the girl had wept for weeks). 

Santana recalled the day Brittany told her she’d been accepted into MIT; how she’d been so afraid if she didn’t take the early acceptance offer and waited until after graduation they might realise they’d made a mistake and she’d be stuck in Lima forever. Was that why Brittany seemed so determined to make this work, even though she hated it? Because she didn’t want to become a Lima Loser?

“Then leave.” Santana stated simply, “You’re brilliant, Britt. You’ll find something else.” 

“I can’t do that,” Brittany breathed, “They still have all these equations they need help with.”

“Okay, no. They can’t just chain you up and use you as their math monkey.” Santana set her churro down and turned towards the other girl, who looked puzzled.

“Wait, do those actually exist?” she asked. 

So _not_ the point right now.

“You need to be having a life,” Santana insisted, “You need to be out in the world, going to concerts and…”

Santana paused. She knew what she should say next. Did she have to say it if it made her feel sick, though? She should. As Brittany’s best friend, she should say it. Besides, she had Dani. She _liked_ Dani. Wasn’t that basically the same thing? She couldn’t deny Brittany the opportunity to find someone new for herself as well, even if she already wanted to kill whoever that annoying hypothetical new person was. 

“… and dating.” Santana swallowed, looking away.

She shouldn’t be this affected by the thought of Brittany dating someone who wasn’t her. They were just starting to find their groove as best friends again. Besides, even if Brittany _did_ still want her, she couldn’t be sure it would work this time. How could it? Brittany hadn’t called Rachel back when Santana needed her more than she’d ever needed anyone before. Maybe it was petty, but Santana felt like she was allowed to hold a grudge over something as big as that. Because it told her all she needed to know about what she meant to Brittany, when the chips were down.

Brittany may have been her person, but she wasn’t Brittany’s.

If she was, Brittany would’ve called Rachel back.

But then Brittany was kissing her and Santana forgot what phones were entirely. Because Brittany’s lips were pressing tenderly into hers, hand cupping her cheek with so much softness that she finally felt complete again. God, was this how it’d always been between the two of them? It felt like breathing in oxygen after being underwater. Santana hadn’t even realised she’d been drowning. 

When Brittany’s tongue traced slowly across her lower lip, Santana’s mouth granted permission before her brain could run through all the reasons it was a bad idea. She closed her eyes and let herself be consumed by the taste of _Brittany_ as her tongue slid deeper inside her mouth, lips pressing insistently against her own. It was getting too heavy, too fast; but she couldn’t stop herself. Santana pulled Brittany in by the waist until the blonde was straddling her, ignoring the fact that they were in the choir room where someone could walk in on them any minute. Because Brittany’s lips were trailing soft kisses down her neck and Brittany’s hand was sneaking under her top to trace soothing circles across her midsection and everything just felt so _right._ Santana barely registered what she was doing as she tugged Brittany’s lips back down to meet her own, devouring the other girl in a kiss filled with so much unbridled need she wondered if they might both buckle under the weight of all the meaning it carried. She forgot everything other than the warmth of the blonde’s body against hers, gasping against a pair of swollen lips as Brittany’s hips began rocking steadily into her own. 

Then Brittany’s hand unbuttoned Santana’s jeans, and it was like she’d been slushied. 

“No.” 

Santana pulled back from the kiss, swatting Brittany’s hands away and pushing her back in one sweeping movement, before she suffocated. She fell out of the chair. The room was spinning. Her top felt too tight all of a sudden and her jeans way too lose. She could feel her heart beating out of her chest and a cold sweat forming at the back of her neck. Her ears were ringing, and her throat felt tight. Then there were jeans and dresses and alleyways and limbs that didn’t work anymore; and everything was the same again, even if she knew it wasn’t. She thinks maybe Brittany was talking to her, but then again maybe Brittany wasn’t actually there at all. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening, not again. 

For the second time that week, Santana had run out of the choir room in tears.

* * *

Convincing Quinn to skip class with her was a lot harder than she thought it would be. 

She wasn’t sure why. They didn’t even _go_ to McKinley anymore. 

It was the day after the incident in the choir room, and Santana had 38 unanswered calls from Brittany. She hadn’t returned any of them. 

“You do realise,” Quinn hugged a pillow into her chest. They were sitting on the couch in Santana’s living room watching TV in the middle of the day, “That skipping an event you flew into town _specifically for_ in favour of watching _Friends_ for the millionth time is textbook avoidance, right?”

“Oh, please,” Santana huffed, “You should be thanking me for getting you away from Puck’s tragic doe eyes for the day.”

Quinn looked down, her smile faltering slightly. 

“Actually,” she mumbled, “Puck left yesterday. So did Biff.” 

Santana had been about to deliver a hilarious ‘two-for-one deal’ retort in response to the news when she noticed Quinn’s eyes flickering towards her with a tight-lipped, watery smile that told her now wasn’t the time for that. She nudged the blonde in the leg with the edge of her foot, teasingly. 

“Hey,” she said firmly, “You’re better off without them.” 

“Perhaps,” Quinn hummed, “Or maybe I’ll just grow old and die alone.” 

Santana laughed. “Well then, we can die old and alone, together.” 

“Don’t be stupid, you have a Dani. ” Quinn shoved her in the shoulder lightly, “And a Brittany.” 

Santana felt her breath catch in her throat at the mention of the _other_ blonde’s name. Dani. She’d cheated on Dani.

“Yeah,” she swallowed, “Not so sure about either of those options anymore.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Quinn admonished, tilting her head back against the couch, “They’d both readily jump off a cliff for you, Santana. You just have to let them.”

“I have to _let_ them jump of a cliff?” Santana quirked an eyebrow, “Sage advice, Q.” 

Quinn slapped her across the chest. “You know what I mean.” 

Santana’s legs had found their way onto Quinn’s lap, and the blonde was running her hands up and down them, absent-mindedly. She wasn’t sure when or how they’d ended up so close together, but she didn’t mind it. 

“I _don’t_ know what you mean,” Santana pushed back, “But I’m not about to push Brittany or Dani off a cliff.”

“Hey,” Quinn giggled, “I never said anything about pushing them.” 

Santana chuckled. Being around Quinn felt different now. The blonde seemed to understand what was going on with her on a different level to Rachel, as much as the broadway starlet wanted that not to be true. It was like being around Brittany, except different. Because Santana didn’t feel the pressure to be _good enough_ all the time around Quinn. She had to be good enough around Brittany right now, though. Otherwise the girl might leave her behind again. 

No, Quinn was a much safer bet. Quinn didn’t have the _right_ to leave Santana behind like Brittany could. Because for all the mess that Santana could be, Quinn was messier. Their particular brand of mess didn’t attract many people, and it retained even less; they both knew that. That’s why they worked so well. They could never leave each other, lest they end up with no one else to hang out with at rock bottom.

“Anyway,” Quinn yawned, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Santana lifted an eyebrow, “What question?” 

“Are you or are you not avoiding Brittany, after what happened in the choir room yesterday?” Quinn turned her head so her cheek was resting against the couch cushion, facing Santana. 

Santana’s brow furrowed in frustration. She propped herself up on a pillow and wiggled her legs so they were draped all the way across Quinn’s lap. She figured if they were really going to go into this, then she at least deserved to be comfortable. 

“Do we really have to talk about it?” Santana tried, in case there was still a way out of the conversation.

Quinn rubbed gently at Santana’s legs as if trying to keep them both warm, considering her carefully for several moments before she spoke again. 

“It’s not uncommon to experience a flashback induced panic attack after what you’ve been through, Santana.” she started “That doesn’t make you a bad person.” 

And maybe it was the way Quinn had said it, like she actually cared, which made Santana think it might be safe to open up to her for once. 

“I know it sounds dumb, because it’s _Brittany,_ ” Santana breathed, “But I don’t know how to be around her anymore.” 

It was the first time she’d said it out loud, and the world felt lighter. 

Because it was true, wasn’t it? The minute she and Brittany had grazed their fingers over one another at Breadsticks, it had been there. It was there in the way she’d wrestled herself out of the other girl’s arms on Friday night. It was there in the sinking feeling she’d felt on Saturday, when she woke to an empty bed. It was there it the way she watched Brittany walk away from her on Sunday, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time but fooling herself every day since then into thinking it could be, if she tried hard enough.

Doubt.

Quinn was watching her like she could see every single thought reflecting in her eyes as they cycled through her head.

“It’s also not uncommon,” she spoke slowly, as if weighing up whether to continue, “for victims of sexual assault to have difficulty trusting sexual partners.” 

Santana stiffened. “Brittany’s more than just sex, Quinn.” 

“I know that,” Quinn didn’t miss a beat, “But sex, and physical touch, is a significant part of your relationship. It always has been; even before love was. After what you’ve been through, did you honestly not think that might get harder this time?”

“ _Wanky.”_

“I’m serious, Santana.” 

Santana shuffled her feet off the other girl, standing up. She wasn’t sure what to say, but she felt an odd sense of relief at having it called out like that; even if the very idea of being called out also made her a little irritated. She folded her arms and looked shyly back towards the other girl, who was patiently waiting for her to digest the idea like some kind of therapist charging $800/hr to tease out her marital issues. 

“Even if you’re right,” she huffed, “Then what?” 

It was a valid question. She didn’t know which way was up or down with her and Brittany these days. If Quinn was going to be such a know-it-all then the girl could at least have the decency to tell her how to fix it. 

“You don’t know how to act around her, because you don’t know where you stand. So find out.” Quinn advised.

Upon seeing Santana’s furrowed brow, she elaborated further. “ _Talk to her._ And not just about the sex but about the phone call too, because we both know that’s been hanging over your heads since you got back here. Brittany probably doesn’t even realise Rachel told you about it.”

Santana thought back to that sinking feeling she got all those weeks ago when Rachel had blindsided her with the news. That Brittany hadn’t cared enough to call back. 

“What if it doesn’t end the way I want it to end?” Santana quivered. 

Quinn quirked an eyebrow, “What if it does?” 

Santana knew she was right. She and Brittany used to be able to communicate volumes with a single look. The only thing that was blocking communication between them right now, was Santana. She had to talk to her about it. Because if she didn’t then it would always be standing there between them. She had to know why Brittany never called Rachel back. 

Even if the answer killed her. 

“Okay,” Santana rasped, “I’ll talk to her.” 

Quinn clapped her hands together like a giddy little girl scout who’d just sold her last box of cookies. It was an unsettling sight to behold, and Santana had to look away before it got too much. She cleared her throat, settling back onto the sofa next to the blonde and tucking her knees into her chest.

“When did you become an expert on sexual assault anyway?” Santana asked, still feeling a little weird about how accurately Quinn had psychoanalysed her, “Was that psych professor of yours giving away some sort of illegal first hand experience in the stuff?”

It was way out of line, and she knew it the minute it left her stupid mouth. When Quinn stilled, Santana was mortified by the realisation that the thoughtless barb might’ve been closer to the truth than she’d intended. 

She gripped the other girl’s wrist in a panic. “Oh my god, Quinn sorry I-”

“No,” Quinn cut her off, “No Santana it’s okay, it’s nothing like that.”

Santana felt an instant sense of relief wash over her.

“Okay, good,” she replied, kicking herself for having crossed the line like that in the first place. “Then, what?”

Quinn’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment as she turned to look at Santana properly. 

“I’ve been going to a support group every Tuesday after class,” she started.

“AA? About time,” Santana teased. 

“No, a support group for sexual assault victims,” she spoke carefully, “and their loved ones…”

The meaning hadn’t been lost on Santana. She felt her throat dry up.

“You’re going to counselling,” she breathed, “For me?” 

Quinn shifted uncomfortably at the suggestion, shrugging. “Well, one of us has to.” 

Before she even knew what she was doing, Santana had leapt into Quinn’s lap, encircling her in a firm hug. She felt the other girl gripping back twice as hard. 

Santana and Quinn didn’t do warm and fuzzy.

That didn’t mean they didn't _care_ about each other. 

“You’re ridiculous.” she breathed into her hair, prompting the blonde to let out a shaky laugh.

“So are you.” Quinn smiled, as Santana let her out of the hug and settled back into her seat. 

The pair refocused on the television, where Ross was acting like a possessive control freak again over something Rachel had or hadn’t remembered to tell him about.

“Okay, real talk,” Santana cleared her throat, “Ross is the _worst_ friend.”

“No contest,” Quinn hummed.

* * *

Santana didn’t talk to Brittany at graduation. 

Well, not really.

Once all of the senior class had been called on stage, Santana waited for Sue to make good on the favour she’d called in earlier that week. Brittany was sitting next to Mike a few aisles over. Santana had given him a cap and gown before the ceremony, along with a detailed explanation about what to do when the moment came and what the consequences would be if he screwed it up.

And yeah, so what if she chickened out of doing it herself? Brittany deserved to have this.

Even if she couldn’t be the one giving it to her.

“Brittany S. Pierce.” Sue called

Santana felt her heart warming as Brittany leapt up in surprise, allowing Mike to engulf her in the red robe as he whispered something in her ear that made her face light up even more. The blonde bounced up onto the stage to join her classmates, who were equally thrilled for her. Then she spotted Santana in the audience, tipped her cap towards with watery eyes and a grateful smile, and mouthed a barely there ‘thank you’ in her direction.

Mike had always been a lousy secret keeper. 

Santana nodded back at her, poorly containing a proud smile of her own.

* * *

Rachel Berry was having a house party. 

It was meant to be a ‘celebration’ for all of this year’s graduates, but really it was just an excuse for them all to get absolutely wasted together one last time before they parted ways again. Santana had already told Rachel she wouldn’t be on babysitting duty this time; she’d had a way too intense week not to let loose tonight. Rachel had simply responded that she wasn’t planning on drinking at all. Santana couldn’t argue with that.

Brittany had arrived so late to the event that, despite all of Quinn and Rachel’s reassurances, Santana was beginning to worry she wouldn’t come. She’d planned to take it slow with the drinks so she’d have the opportunity to finally talk it out with the girl properly, before they both went home and missed their shot completely. It was tonight, or never.

But Brittany was really, really late. 

It was nearing 11pm by the time the girl arrived, and Santana was already a few tequila shots past tipsy. She hadn’t meant to drink so much, determined to still be lucid when Brittany arrived. But she was only human, and there were people here who wanted to catch up and have a good time with her. Besides, who's to say this wasn’t simply another moment Brittany had decided not to show up for? Santana was done waiting. 

When Brittany finally did arrive, Santana was in the bathroom. 

She had been fixing her make up in the mirror, when the door swung open and took her by surprise. She looked up to see none other than Brittany S. Pierce standing before her in an outrageously perfect white dress. It stopped Santana dead in her tracks. 

This was the girl she was going to marry one day. 

Wait, what?

Fucking tequila.

“Hi,” she giggled. She was far too drunk for this to be her first contact with Brittany tonight.

“Hi,” Brittany smiled.

For a while they both just stood there, stupidly, like penguins. Santana wanted to laugh. When had they become so awkward with each other?

“Congratulations,” Santana tried her best not to slur the words, “You’re now officially a graduate.” 

When Brittany stepped forward to close the door behind her, Santana thought the tiles might cave in underneath them both.

“Thank you, Santana.” Brittany said sincerely, “You have no idea how much that meant to me.” 

Uncomfortable, Santana tried to laugh it off. “I don’t know. I think I have _some_ idea.” 

“Can I hug you?” the blonde had blurted out. It was tentative, like she was terrified Santana might turn her away.

“Yeah,” Santana grinned stupidly. God, she was _so_ drunk. “I’d really like that.” 

Then Brittany was wrapped around her, and once again she felt anchored in a way she never had with anyone else. Santana closed her eyes, burrowing her head into Brittany’s neck and breathing in deeply.

“Run away with me.” 

Santana jumped back at the voice. Who said that? Had _she_ said that? She looked at Brittany, uncertain, until the girl apparently felt the need to repeat herself. 

“Run away with me,” Brittany suggested, firmer this time. 

She fell back. It felt like her drunk little brain was short circuiting. Because Brittany, _her Brittany,_ was asking her to drop everything and run off into the sunset with her, with absolutely no consideration towards the very real possibility that they might not survive it. Did she really have that much faith in them? Or had she simply not thought it through? No, Santana had to be imagining this entire conversation. 

Santana’s chest felt tight. She had planned this out in her head but Brittany had just thrown the whole script out the window without learning her lines. Santana was supposed to communicate _properly_ and address the elephant in the room that was the Rachel-Berry-phone-call mystery, so they could work towards rebuilding a more solid foundation for their relationship (if they were lucky enough to make it that far). Santana couldn’t forget about all of that and decide to just run away with Brittany. 

Oh no. 

Santana really wanted to just run away with Brittany. 

“Santana,” Brittany was avoiding touching her this time, presumably having learnt from their exchange in the choir room, “Sorry, you don’t have to. I just thought-”

“Thought what, Britt?” Santana asked, “That we could just avoid talking about everything? That’s not fair. I had a plan… I have… things I need to talk about-” 

“I know, Santana.” Brittany nodded.

“No you don’t.” Santana babbled, “You don’t or you wouldn’t have just put me on the spot like that. I can’t run away with you, not before I-”

It was probably the tequila’s fault; no, it was _definitely_ the tequila’s fault, but Santana could feel herself getting more frazzled by the minute. She couldn’t remember what the next words were supposed to be. Even though she’d learnt all her lines ages ago.

“Okay, forget I said any of that.” Brittany sensed her unease, taking her hand gently, “I love you, Santana. And, you love me right? Let’s just start there and we can work out the rest later.” 

Later. 

It was always _later._

She shouldn’t have been as angry as she was, and maybe that was the tequila’s fault too, but Santana was furious. 

Furious that she’d had the rug ripped out from under her. 

Furious that Brittany seemed so decisive all of a sudden. 

Furious that Brittany had just said she loved her like she was discussing the weather.

Furious that it always seemed to be Brittany dictating the terms of their relationship.

“No, Brittany,” Santana shook her head, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” 

She tore her hand away from Brittany’s and fled the bathroom before the other girl could see her cry.

* * *

It had purely been a case of bad luck that Rachel Berry happened to be standing on the other side of the bathroom door when Santana came racing out of it, holding back tears.

Bad luck for both of them, really.

Such.

Bad.

Luck.

Rachel had seen the state she was in and caught her by the arm, concerned. 

“Woah, Santana,” she soothed, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

It wasn’t fair of her, at all, but suddenly they were teenagers again and there was an annoying dwarf tugging on her Cheerios uniform. Santana snapped. 

“Do I _look_ okay to you Rachel?” she seethed, “Get the hell away from me!” 

She swatted at Rachel’s hands, surprising the other girl enough into stepping back.

“Santana I’m sorry, I just-” Rachel started

“You just _what,_ Rachel? You thought this was going to be more convenient life experience for your acting resume?” Santana mocked, “‘Oh look, I’m Rachel Berry and my best friend was raped. It’s been _very hard_ on both of us.’ _”_

If Rachel had simply been angry, Santana thinks they might’ve just yelled at each other for a bit and that would’ve been the end of it. But Rachel wasn’t angry, she was sympathetic.

That was so much worse. 

“Santana,” Rachel breathed quietly, “I think it’s time to go, okay?” 

“No, you know when would’ve been a good time to _go_ , Rachel?” Santana shouted, “After  three drinks. Like you fucking promised!”

There it was. 

Rachel stood as if she’d been slapped. 

“Fuck you, Santana,” Rachel shook her head, aghast, “Fuck. You.” 

Santana laughed emptily, already walking away. 

“Yeah, well thanks to you” she sassed, turning back to the other girl as she marched backwards down the hallway, “No one’s ever gonna be able to _fuck me_ again, so…” 

It was petty, and wildly inappropriate. 

All Rachel had been able to do was watch, crushed, as her best friend left; blaming her for the second most devastating event that had happened to them all year.

Much later, Santana would live to regret it.

* * *

Quinn found her on the floor of the kitchen, head in her hands as she rocked back and forth. The room was still spinning.

“You better have a damn good reason for what just happened back there.” It was stern, bordering on cold. Santana forgot that Quinn was an angry drunk.

Did she mention the two of them had never been warm and fuzzy?

Santana sucked a breath in and whipped around to face the blonde, ready for round two. 

“Wow, what a _shocker,_ ” Santana scowled, standing up. “Quinn Fabray siding with Rachel Berry! Just come out of the freaking closet already, Q. We’re all here waiting for you.”

“Oh, I see,” Quinn sneered, “Sadness got too much for you so we’re switching to rage now. Well, if the goal was to push everyone you love away from you in under three minutes then you’re doing an _amazing_ job.”

Santana charged towards Quinn, pointing a finger into her chest.

“You can cut it out with all that psycho shit right now, Quinn,” she shoved her back into the kitchen cabinets, knocking a plate from the countertop with a loud crash.

“Actually, I think you’ve got the _psycho_ shit covered enough for the both of us at the moment, Santana.” Quinn shoved her back.

Santana wasn’t angry. She really wasn’t. She was drunk and confused and upset and terrified and… in _excruciating_ pain. For some reason, that manifested as furious. It was like Snixx on steroids. She wasn’t sure she could stop it if she tried. She shoved Quinn again and pinned her to the kitchen bench this time, hands pressed firmly into her chest. 

Then Santana had made eye contact with Quinn for the first time since she entered the room, and found patience where she expected fury.

She burst into tears. 

It must’ve been enough to extinguish what was left of the angry drunk in Quinn too, because the girl held her tightly; whispering that everything would be okay in a way that actually made Santana believe it. She felt Quinn’s voice wash over her like a wave. 

She’s not sure how exactly it progressed from comforting to kissing, but Santana found herself pressed up against the other girl in a raging duel of clashing teeth and tongues. There was somehow too much heat yet not nearly enough at the same time. Santana pressed her hips into the other girl’s up against the bench, shoving her tongue down her throat and swallowing the feverish moan she received in return. She could feel herself getting lost in the way the blonde keened under her touch, as she dragged sharp nails through Santana’s hair and whimpered at the feel of the hands that were making the way under the thin fabric of her blouse. 

But just as quickly as it started, it had stopped. Quinn turned her head away, then pushed gently at her chest to create space between them. The pair were both panting heavily, trying to catch their breath. They held each other steady by the waist, Quinn resting her forehead against Santana’s.

“I’m not the blonde you want,” she breathed.

Santana sobbed, because they both knew Quinn was right. It infuriated her, that she _couldn’t_ want Quinn.

Quinn, who expected nothing from her

_So Santana could always over-deliver._

Quinn, who was just as damaged as her.

_So Santana couldn’t possibly let her down._

Quinn, who mattered less than Brittany.

_So Santana could never be hurt._

She held onto Quinn tightly, knowing she needn’t have said anything for the other girl to understand what she was thinking. They were, in times like these, far too similar not to understand each other intimately. 

“Sometimes,” Santana cried, “I wish you were.” 

“I know.” Quinn pulled her in close, catching the tears as they came much like she had that morning on the way home from the hospital.

It wasn’t until a throat cleared itself uncomfortably from behind them that either girl realised they had an audience. 

They turned to find Brittany and Rachel standing in the doorway, looking as if they’d both just seen a ghost. 

Santana was no stranger to bad decisions.


	13. Wait For the Wave Just to Wash it Away (Santana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana starts to make amends, but the road is long.

Quinn wasn’t the only one who’d gone to group therapy.

Not that Santana would _ever_ admit that to anyone.

About two weeks after the night in the bar, she’d found an organisation in Ridgewood that offered weekly meetings to aid people who were recovering from ‘traumatic sexual experiences.’

She went once.

Not to talk, obviously.

The woman who led it was a quack, and seemed to be in possession of even more oddly specific self-help pamphlets than Ms. Pillsbury. Santana would sooner have stabbed herself in the eye with a rusty spoon than taken anything she had to offer.

She wasn’t sure why she’d bothered going at all.

But there had been a girl there who was struggling, because she was comfortable touching everyone except her boyfriend. She was worried it might drive him away.

The quack told them emotional intimacy was harder than physical intimacy for some people, because if an emotion, like love or affection, was somehow linked to the traumatic event then the very emotion itself could become a trigger.

Santana wondered what the quack might’ve said to someone who was pretty sure they’d been attacked _because_ of the love they felt for other people.

Probably something worth making a pamphlet about.

* * *

The kitchen was dead silent.

Quinn stood behind her, still recovering against the bench from their… fight. 

Rachel was shooting daggers at both of them.

All Santana could focus on was Brittany, who looked like someone had just told her Lord Tubbington was dead. Worse, she looked as if Santana was the one who killed him.

Santana opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. 

The pair seemed to be making a habit out of running away from each other lately.

It was Brittany’s turn.

* * *

She found her sitting at the end of Rachel’s driveway, crying.

Santana hated herself for being the person responsible for it.

Brittany and Rachel’s arrival had been like a bucket of iced water to the nervous system, and Santana had never felt more alert than she did right now. She watched the blonde for a while, before clearing her throat to make herself known.

“Your dress is going to get dirty down there.”

It was pathetic, but what else could she say? Santana felt herself shrinking as Brittany turned around to look at her. The girl’s eyes were blood red. 

Santana sat down on the concrete beside her, slowly, wholly aware that one wrong move right now would result in an immediate end to the conversation. She knew she didn’t deserve a chance to speak after what she’d just done, but she could at least try. Crossing her legs, Santana stared out towards the road, searching for the words. It was Brittany who spoke first.

“What was all that about, Santana?” she asked meekly.

Santana stalled. That wasn’t the kind of question she’d been prepared for. 

What _was_ it all about? 

“Was it because I told you I love you?” Brittany pressed, “Do you not love me anymore?” 

“What? No, of course I love you.” Santana answered immediately, because that much she _did_ know. 

“Okay, then what? Because I asked you to run away with me?” Brittany asked, growing impatient. 

“Britt,” Santana was starting to feel flustered, “You don’t want to run away with me, you just don’t want to go back to MIT.” 

“Why can’t it be both of those things?” Brittany snapped. 

Santana paused. She was never particularly sure what to do with an angry Brittany, having rarely been on the receiving end of it in the past, and never to this extreme. She sat still, eyes downcast as the blonde groaned in frustration and started picking at the seam of her dress. 

“You know, I just feel really stupid,” Brittany huffed, and Santana felt herself wincing at that dreaded word coming from the other girl’s mouth yet again, “Because I spent like three hours freaking out over what dress to wear tonight, and triple checking all of the stuff I found online about sexual assault and relationships so everything could be perfect and I could try and get through to you somehow… but that just meant I ended up being late and I panicked and ruined everything with my stupid proposal.” 

Santana felt her heart sink. Her first thought was that she should’ve told Brittany how perfect she looked in the dress earlier, but now didn’t really feel like the right time to make up for it. Her second thought, of Brittany researching things online for them, was way too much to process; so Santana figured she could start by addressing the easy part of what the girl had just said, and go from there.

“You’re _not_ stupid, Brittany, and you didn’t ruin anything,” Santana corrected, “I ruined everything. I wanted us to talk tonight too.” 

Brittany’s eyes narrowed, “Then _talk,_ Santana.” 

This was it; the window Santana had been waiting for. She cursed herself for being so hot-headed earlier and forcing them to have this conversation now, when emotions were already running so high. This wasn’t how she’d planned it. Not even close. Santana sighed, because it was now or never, and never was hardly an option.

“Why didn’t you call Rachel back?” 

When the words left her mouth, it was as if an anvil had been physically lifted from her chest. Santana felt her body trembling with adrenalin, terrified the blonde may not bring forward the response she was hoping for. When she finally dared to look up from her feet, the look she found on Brittany’s face hadn’t been remotely close to what she was expecting. 

Confusion.

“What?” Brittany asked.

“Berry, she called you,” Santana turned inward, to face her properly, “When Quinn and I got back from the hospital. And you never called her back. I just… I need to know why not.”

Brittany’s face fell. She seemed to be cycling through an infinitum of different thoughts in her head. It was unsettling. But there wasn’t a shred of guilt in sight.

“She called you?” Santana said, slightly less certain than she’d been before. “And left a voice message, about how I needed you. And you ignored it?”

Something clicked, then Brittany was taking her phone out and scrolling through it frantically. Santana wasn’t really sure what she was looking for. She waited, until Brittany finally stopped and held the device out pointedly to her. Santana hesitated. 

“Play it.” Brittany insisted, forcing the phone into her palm.

Santana’s hands were trembling. What exactly was Brittany’s game here? Swallowing her nerves, she hit play on the voice message the blonde had presented to her. Rachel’s tipsy whispers rattled out of the speaker moments later.

“Hi Brittany, it’s Rachel Berry. We went to McKinley together, you might remember me from our time together in the New Directions,” Even while tipsy, Rachel spoke so formally. If it weren’t for the circumstances surrounding them right now Santana might’ve laughed at what a dumbass the diva could be sometimes. “I’m calling because-”

The message cut out. Santana frowned, and hit play again. 

It cut out at exactly the same time. 

“Wait, what?” Santana tilted her head.

“That’s the only voice message I’ve ever received from Rachel Berry, Santana.” Brittany told her, frowning, “And, if I’m doing the math correctly, _which I am_ , then it’s the one from the night you’re asking about.” 

Oh. 

This was bad. But maybe it was good? She wasn’t entirely sure yet.

“Well,” Santana eventually recovered, “Why didn’t you call her back?” 

“Why would I?” Brittany argued, “We’re not friends. It was like 5am in the morning and she sounded kinda drunk. Then she never contacted me again.” 

Santana faltered, shaking her head in disbelief. This was ridiculous. She’d spent months agonising over this; _crying_ over a voicemail… that had cut out early? She couldn’t help but laugh a little, albeit nervously, because now she kind of felt like an idiot. This felt like the sort of epic misunderstanding they’d tell their grandkids one day; about how Santana was _such an idiot_ that she nearly screwed everything up between them because she was too scared to ask about a voice message that didn’t even say anything. How embarrassing was that? The laugh got caught in her throat, though, when she looked up at Brittany to discover the other girl wasn’t amused by it at all.

Not one bit.

“Santana,” she whispered brokenly, “How could you think I wouldn’t have come to you, if I’d known? Is that the kind of person you think I am?” 

It was like a knife to the chest. Santana felt the panic set in.

“Well, no,” she stumbled, scratching her forehead, “But that’s kinda why I’ve been all over the place lately, Britt. I mean, it didn’t make sense that you could just leave me hanging like that and at the same time be acting so…”

“In love with you?” Brittany quirked an eyebrow, challengingly.

“Yeah.” Santana gulped. She felt exposed all of a sudden. 

Because this was _Brittany._

Brittany, who held her steady during her nightmare and never once wavered, even when the only thanks she received was to be asked to leave. 

Brittany, who waited patiently to be let in on a secret everyone else already knew, because Santana insisted on keeping her in the dark for so long.

Brittany, who found her in the carpark and grounded her in reality when she was about to lose grasp of it for good; who cleaned the blood and glass from her knuckles without judgement and stayed with her until she fell asleep.

Brittany, who turned a midnight snack run into an ill-conceived revenge plot geared solely towards protecting Santana’s wellbeing, even at risk of her own. 

Brittany, who was absolutely in love with her, despite the fact Santana could be such a _fucking moron_ sometimes.

Brittany, whose heart she had been so inexcusably reckless with.

As if sensing her guilt, Brittany sighed in defeat and took her hand with the kind of forgiveness Santana didn’t feel she deserved yet. The blonde interlaced their fingers together and turned to face her. Her eyes carried a look that was intent, knowing.

“There’s more, right?” she probed. 

Santana frowned, briefly confused as to what the other girl meant. It wasn’t until a few moments later when she realised, with bitter disappointment, that the ongoing feeling of dread she’d expected to go away once they cleared things up was still brewing in the pit of her stomach. Brittany had always known her better than she knew herself. Of course she’d realise it sooner than Santana did. 

The call wasn’t the problem. 

Santana fidgeted as Brittany waited patiently for her to explain. How could she begin to talk about something she didn’t understand herself; something that had been dormant within her until Brittany found it a few seconds ago? She felt a shiver course through her body. It was really cold outside. 

Apparently her mouth had been eagerly awaiting this opportunity though, because it started speaking of its own accord.

“Do you remember,” Santana spoke slowly, as if curious about what her own words would be when they tumbled out, “That summer before senior year when we finally started acting like we were… you know?”

“Dating.” Brittany prompted.

“Yeah,” Santana nodded, “Dating.” 

“What about it?” Brittany tilted her head, growing impatient. 

“Up until then I’d been so scared, Britt. Of being myself,” Santana exhaled shakily, “But being with you… you made me feel like it was _okay_ to be myself. Like being myself was a good thing.”

“It is a good thing.” Brittany’s answer was immediate. Her unwavering confidence, even now, made Santana’s heart soar. 

She thought of how at home she’d felt in New York, living her life freely without fear of judgement, like they had that summer.

She thought of how he’d looked at her when Dani left the diner, like they were a dirty little secret meant only for behind closed doors.

She thought of how he’d gloated when he’d finished with her, asking if the girl she loved would ever forgive her for what they’d done.

She thought of the quack from group and her dumb emotional trigger stuff, and how the pamphlets might be worth reading after all.

Because when Santana thought of love, she thought of Brittany; and now, she felt shame.

Every time.

The pair had subconsciously moved in closer toward each other. They were barely touching but the contact was still there, and Santana felt a lot warmer than she had before. She wanted to reach out and hold onto Brittany, but it didn’t feel like she deserved to now.

“I can’t be that girl from senior year anymore, Brittany.” Santana choked the words out, “But I don’t know how to be around you, if I’m not.”

Brittany absorbed the confession like a bullet to the chest, her whole body rocking slightly until she fell to lean back on her hands. She took a deep breath in, head rocking up towards the night sky. Santana watched her, intently. Brittany had always felt at peace watching the night sky, and Santana had always felt at peace watching her.

For a while, that’s all they did; Santana watched Brittany, Brittany watched the universe. 

“Why Quinn?” Brittany’s voice was eerily cold. She didn’t look away from the night.

Santana hesitated. She knew Brittany wasn’t just asking about what had happened inside before. She was asking why she’d called Quinn for help that night, instead of Brittany; why Quinn had been the one to skip class with her the other day, instead of Brittany; why she’d fallen so easily into Quinn tonight, but run from Brittany in the choir room that afternoon, and every day since then. 

Santana knew Brittany had outwardly expressed contempt towards her fledgling friendship with Rachel since they’d been back, but it was clear from the emptiness in her eyes right now that she was only truly worried about one person taking the top spot in Santana’s life. Someone with just as much history as the two of them, and nearly as much ability to understand the inner workings of Santana’s head; but up until a few moments ago, probably not someone Brittany perceived as a serious contender for Santana’s romantic affection. 

She thought she’d been replaced.

There weren’t enough words in the world for Santana to convey how impossible that would be. Dani be damned.

“Look, Quinn knows she’ll never be it for me,” Santana paused, unsure how to explain the rest properly, “But… when I screw something up, it’s easier with her. It matters less.”

Brittany turned to her with an incredulous look on her face. She shook her head, disapprovingly. “That’s a terrible reason.”

They fell back into silence. Santana hadn’t been sure what to say to that, because Brittany was right. Brittany was usually right, when it came to Santana. Both of them knew it. They sat there quietly until Santana couldn’t handle the suspense any longer.

“I’ve ruined this, haven’t I?” she felt a sob escape her, petrified the answer might be yes. 

The question consumed the empty space between them, and Brittany contemplated the answer for far longer than Santana was comfortable with. It felt like years before she heard the gentle scuff of feet shuffling against concrete, as Brittany pulled herself into an upright position again. The blonde manoeuvred her body so they were squarely opposite each other; both of them with their legs crossed together like middle school girls. 

“No, but it feels like you’re trying to.” Brittany took Santana’s hand in hers, “We need to start talking about some of this stuff.”

* * *

They talked for hours, about everything and nothing, until Artie had drunkenly wheeled over Brittany’s foot on his way home with Kitty and snapped them out of it. The younger pair were far too wasted to notice the tear tracks running along either girl’s face, and had barely managed an apology before racing away into the night together. 

If Santana had to guess, she’d say it was slightly after 2am 

They hadn’t resolved a single thing. 

“C’mon,” Brittany wiped her eyes, standing up and reaching a hand out to Santana, “We should head home too.” 

Santana felt her heart sink at hearing the resignation in the blonde’s voice. Allowing herself to be lifted up, she held onto Brittany’s hand when the other girl tried to pull away. Brittany turned towards her, unsure. 

“I love you, Brittany.” Santana spoke with absolute resolve, “More than I’ve ever loved anyone else in this world.”

Santana was hoping the meaning wouldn’t be lost on Brittany, who had uttered those same exact words to her the last time they had found themselves in a similar state of emotional limbo. Back then, the only thing either girl had ever been sure of was that they would, eventually, end up somewhere together. They just had to figure out how, when and where they were going. She could only pray this time would be the same.

Brittany considered her for a moment, then pulled her into a hug that mirrored the one Santana had pulled _her_ into on that very occasion outside their lockers. Feeling immediate reassurance, Santana tucked her nose into the nape of Brittany’s neck as they held each other for a while; simply content to just be. 

“If Quinn ever kisses you again,” Brittany mumbled into her hair, “I might have to cut out her tongue.” 

Santana laughed shakily, pulling away from the other girl. She held up her pinky, gasping in relief when the other girl met it with her own. 

“Not happening.” Santana shook her head fervently. They walked away together, pinkies entwined the whole way back to into the house.

* * *

Rachel Berry wasn’t speaking to her. 

Santana knew she deserved it. 

She also knew she needed to fix it. 

It was their last day at McKinley. Half of the New Directions were off planning some big number to surprise Mr. Schue with in the auditorium, and the other half were off doing whatever high school graduates did when they hung out at their old stomping ground. Santana wasn’t sure. Probably something super lame. She had her mind set on finding Berry, who had been noticeably absent from that morning’s class. 

According to Quinn’s intel, the diva was running through her Funny Girl lines in the auditorium. Santana still wasn’t sure how they’d managed to get out of rehearsals for an entire week so close to opening night, but she wasn’t about to question it. Life could be a cruel mistress; they might as well take the wins wherever they could get them.

She could hear Rachel babbling to herself the minute she stepped backstage. Berry rehearsing was always a sight to behold. Santana didn’t mind the whole Broadway thing because, well, they were paying her and it meant she got to sing and dance a lot. But Rachel? It was everything to her, and it showed in the way she carried herself across the stage every time she set foot on it. Santana was so proud of her. 

Not that she’d ever tell her that to her face. No way.

“You certainly are dedicated,” Santana commented as she stepped out from the wings. 

She saw Rachel tense on her approach, and wondered if she’d made the right call to do this so soon. It’d only been a day since they fought. Well, since Santana yelled and Rachel just… took it. Maybe she should’ve waited until they were back in New York and Rachel had no choice other than to make up with her, because otherwise their sleeping arrangements would end up being a little tricky to navigate. 

Oh well, too late. 

“I thought you’d be with Brittany,” Rachel’s voice was clipped, “Lots to talk about, I presume.”

“Britt and I have an eternity’s worth of words to cover off,” Santana exhaled heavily, “We’re taking a quick break to rehydrate.”

If Rachel was interested in any new developments between the pair, she didn’t show it. “What do you want, Santana?” 

Santana should’ve known this was how it was going to be. She stepped forward warily, fiddling with a page of sheet music atop the piano.

“I wanted to say,” she started, “That I’m sorry. I was way out of line.” 

Rachel scoffed, folding her arms across her chest.

Santana continued, “And I don’t actually blame you for what happened. It’s important to me that you know that.” 

“Then why did you say it?” Rachel asked defiantly.

Santana shrugged. “I don't know. Because I’m a bitch who can’t handle her tequila?” 

“That’s not a good enough reason, Santana.” Rachel rebuked. 

The diva began collecting the pages of her script together as if preparing to leave, and Santana knew she was running out of time to sort this mess out. She caught the other girl’s arm gently.

“You’re right, it’s not.” Santana cleared her throat, “But I’m trying here, Rach. Please.”

Rachel stilled, turning around to face her.

“Did you just give me a nickname that wasn’t insulting?” she asked, puzzled.

Santana blushed, “Look I thought I’d test it out, but now my mouth feels kinda gross all of a sudden.” 

“To be honest,” Rachel smiled shyly, “I sort of like it when you just call me ‘Berry’.” 

“And I sort of like _calling_ you Berry, Berry.” Santana smirked, earning a reluctant laugh from the other girl. 

Then the laughter dried out, and Rachel was back to regarding her warily. Santana braced herself for a verdict. It was a positive sign that they had slipped so easily into such casual banter, but she knew her roommate well enough to know she wasn’t about to be let off that easy. Nothing with Rachel Berry was ever easy. 

When the gavel finally came down, it wasn’t in the way she had been expecting.

“I know it was you who held me back from the ledge that night, Santana.” Rachel spoke timidly.

Santana felt her stomach turn at the sudden mention of the night in question. The night they always skirted around whenever Rachel mentioned drinking. The night Rachel Berry nearly got herself killed because she couldn’t handle her alcohol and thought she could fly; and was sad enough not to care if it turned out she was wrong. When she’d woken up the next morning her memory had been foggy, so Kurt and Santana agreed not to fill in the blanks in fear of causing her any further distress. Clearly, Rachel remembered more than she’d let on.

Santana’s voice cracked. “It’s fine, Berry. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“We do. Because you’ve sacrificed so many things for yourself to help me this year.” Rachel stepped forward, “I mean, we spend nearly every waking moment together, Santana. You sleep with me more than you sleep with Dani, and I know I’ve ruined a fair few sleepovers because of that. I keep expecting you to tell me to get over myself and move on but you never do. You always show up for me, even if I seem to irritate you most of the time.” 

At the mention of Dani, Santana felt uneasy. She was going to have to deal with that situation when they arrived back in New York and it wasn’t something she’d been looking forward to at all. For now though, she needed to focus on the task at hand.

“It’s okay,” Santana’s need to assure the girl was reflexive, “I don’t mind doing it.” 

Rachel lifted an eyebrow towards her. They both knew it was only half a lie.

“Look, all I’m saying is that you’ve earned the right to throw a few of your own emotions back at me from time to time. I can take it.” Rachel pressed, “And, while I’d prefer it if you’d do so in a slightly less _confrontational_ manner next time, everything you said last night was right, Santana. You only got separated from us that night because I was selfish, and careless; and I broke a promise I made to you, that was only there to keep me safe in the first place. Maybe neither of us could’ve foreseen what kind of consequences that would end up having, but it doesn’t change anything. My actions had consequences that got you _hurt_ , Santana. We’ve never acknowledged it out loud with each other before, but it’s true.”

Santana looked down, trying to mask the fact that her eyes were watering. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Rachel Berry hold herself so accountable for her actions. It was slightly disconcerting, if albeit a welcome change. Santana almost forgot she was the one who’d come here to apologise. 

“I’ve gotta say, I’m a bit confused,” Santana admitted, “Are you mad at me?”

“A little. I think you have a lot of issues you need to work through.” Rachel stated firmly, settling onto the stool by the piano.

Santana nodded, cramming herself on the seat with her. “I know, and I am really, really sorry for lashing out.”

“I know.” 

Rachel was right. Santana _did_ have a lot to deal with. What was that thing Finn said to her, during lady music week? Something about how she didn’t know what to do with all her feelings so she lashed out at other people instead. The boy had never been the brightest candle in the box, but he sure as hell seemed to have hit the nail on the head with that one. He’d been so worried she’d eventually turn that rage inward and hurt herself that he’d totally violated her personal boundaries under the guise of looking out for her. She hadn’t had the heart then, in the face of such misguided good intentions, to explain to Finn that self hatred wasn’t that cut and dry; that it could manifest in other, equally devastating modes of destruction.

Like deliberately hurting the people you love, so they stop loving you back.

Santana cleared her throat.“You’re not the only one who needs us to share a bed, Berry.”

She felt the brunette turn to look at her, but she wasn’t quite ready to look back yet.

“That night Quinn and I came home, she tried to comfort me. In her own way,” Santana’s cheeks flushed, remembering exactly what _that_ had entailed, “And it helped. But it wasn’t enough. In the end, the only thing that got me to sleep that night, and every night after, was lying next to you.” 

“Wanky?” Rachel teased.

“Oh my god, no.” Santana was mortified, raising a hand as if to physically stop the other girl, “You’re not even close to using that right.”

The pair laughed quietly together, before Santana recovered from the utter shock of hearing that word come out of _Rachel Berry’s_ mouth and straightened up.

“All I’m trying to say,” she tried again, “Is that everything you keep saying, about how I’ve become so important to you this year? It’s not a one way thing.” 

When Santana felt a head flop softly onto her shoulder, she released a laboured sigh. Talking about stuff could really take a toll on a person if you did it too often. She had no idea how people did this all the time.

“You know, this is probably the most honest you’ve ever been with me about your feelings during daylight hours,” Rachel commented, with a cautiously playful lilt to her voice. 

Santana chuckled, feeling incredibly grateful. Because Rachel knew her well enough to understand that this entire conversation would be making her extremely uncomfortable, and it meant _so_ much to Santana that she was making an effort to lighten the mood and take some of the pressure off. Santana knew she didn’t necessarily deserve the leniency after what she’d done last night, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

It made her all the more certain that honesty was exactly what Rachel deserved in return right now, regardless of what time of day it happened to be; or how uncomfortable it was.

“I don’t blame you, Rachel.” Santana confessed, barely a whisper, “I just know exactly how to hurt you.”

When she felt Rachel stiffen, Santana braced herself for the fallout. The diva sat up straight, and turned to look at her.

“You keep doing that,” she observed, “Brittany, me, Quinn… Hurting us on purpose. Why?” 

Santana felt her eyes start to water again, and she played nervously with her fingers in her lap to try and curb some of the emotions. She didn’t like it being phrased that way. ‘On purpose’ felt so calculating. Malicious. That didn’t feel right, because there’s no way that Santana would ever set out to deliberately hurt the people she cared about. No way. 

Right?

“I don’t know… I don’t even know if it _is_ on purpose,” Santana shrugged, sticking to her earlier commitment to be _honest,_ “Everything is getting really confusing.” 

She was fidgeting with her fingers even more now, chewing on her bottom lip while she waited for a response. Rachel reached down to stop her, and took one of Santana’s hands into her own. She waited until Santana looked up at her before she said anything. 

“Please don’t blow up at me for suggesting this,” Rachel’s voice was dangerously low, “But I think when we get back to New York, you should try seeing a therapist.”

In hindsight, Santana realised she probably should’ve seen that coming. It irked her, because she knew the other girl was right, as much it was the last thing she wanted to hear. Because it was easy enough to deny being broken when you were simply hurting in silence, and closing everything out to avoid dealing with the pain. Santana could handle that; she didn’t need a _therapist_ for that. But last night she’d hurt other people too; people she cared about, and she’d felt this horrible, aching sense of self-loathing ever since. She couldn’t live like this. She couldn’t keep hurting her people, so something had to change. She had to change. Even if it meant going back to that lame support group and actually talking this time. Or, at the very least, taking a damn pamphlet.

That didn’t make her weak, did it?

Santana wasn’t sure when she’d started sobbing, only that her entire body was shaking and her throat felt all scratchy. Rachel sat patiently with her until the tears subsided, rubbing soothing circles into her back. Honestly, she was getting so _sick_ of crying all the time lately. It was embarrassing, and she kept having to redo her makeup.

“You might be right,” Santana sniffed, rolling her eyes, “Maybe I do need to talk to someone.”

Rachel had hugged her then. It was awkward, with neither of them having quite enough room on the seat to manage it properly. But the intention behind it was more than enough comfort in itself.

“I think you’re my best friend,” she sputtered over the Rachel’s shoulder, still trapped in their tentative half-hug.

Rachel jumped back, shoving her playfully in the chest. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said that out loud!”

“Oh my God.” Santana wiped furiously at her eyes, “Don’t make this weird, please.” 

Rachel’s laugh was caught up in half a sob; and it was only then that Santana realised she must’ve been crying at some point too. Santana tugged at her hand until their fingers were interlaced, and couldn’t help but think about how much things had changed for them in a year. It felt like only yesterday that they were stood in their graduation robes on this very stage, brimming with hope about everything life had in store for them. It wasn’t as if she or Rachel ever had any intention of experiencing that life together though, even if they had sort of been friends by the end of senior year. 

Now, as they sat on a chair too small for two, thrown together by events far too tragic for either of them to have learnt to live with yet, Santana couldn’t help but think life must have a particularly twisted sense of humour. Rachel Berry, the most annoying girl in school, and Santana Lopez, the one who led the charge to make her life a living hell, were best friends now. How about that for irony, Alanis? She took a deep breath in, and turned to look at the other girl.

“Are we okay, Berry?” 

“Yeah, we’re okay.”

\ 

“Is Quinn a good kisser?”

* * *

Artie was making a time capsule video for Mr. Schue’s kid, so he wanted everyone to show up and say something nice about him on camera. As Santana traipsed back into the auditorium for the second time that day, she contemplated what she could say about her former teacher that didn’t involve passing comment on his addiction to sweater vests or tendency to act unbelievably racist by thoughtlessly appropriating things from cultures he knew nothing about. She figured she’d just make it up as she went along, because there had to be _some_ reason she still liked the guy.

“Oh, there you are!” Artie had cheered when she arrived on stage, “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Santana had just been about to ask the boy who exactly ‘we’ entailed when Brittany appeared next to him. Although she tried not to let it show, she was a little taken aback by the blonde’s presence, because Artie had implied she’d be filming alone. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing Brittany was there. She just hadn’t been prepared, and now she felt nervous all of a sudden. Dammit. 

“Apparently, we’re a two-shot,” Brittany offered feebly, as if sensing Santana’s apprehension.

“Damn straight,” Artie wheeled away, taking his place behind the camera, “You always have been.”

When Brittany cast her eyes downward, Santana swallowed uncomfortably. Dumb Artie and his dumb ‘directorial vision.’ The last thing the two of them needed right now was to reflect together about how much _happier_ they were during their time together in Glee club. Yeah, sure, they were working on fixing things. But Santana’s little tequila-fuelled meltdown was way too fresh in both their minds right now. Happy was a long way off.

As they took their places on the two seats in the centre of the stage, Santana found some comfort in the brief, reassuring smile Brittany had thrown her way. If the blonde believed they could get through this, then she could too.

“Alright ladies, the camera’s rolling,” Artie barked, “One thing Mr. Schue did that had a lasting impression on you. Go!”

Santana floundered. It was one thing to improvise when she thought she’d be alone, but having Brittany here had thrown her off her game way more than she would’ve liked. Brittany must’ve noticed, because she jumped in immediately to redirect Artie’s focus.

“He does this magic trick,” she beamed, “where he pulls a duck out of a hat. You should have him show you sometime.” 

Artie chuckled, and Santana had been so swept up in the sheer _Brittany_ of it all that she hadn’t even noticed she was staring at the blonde until the wannabe director snapped her out of it. 

“Okay, drop the heart-eyes please, Santana,” he called, “You’re up. What would you like to thank Mr. Schue for?” 

If it hadn’t been for the soft laugh she heard Brittany let out under her breath, Santana thought she might’ve killed Artie on the spot for calling her out like that. She felt a blush forming on her cheeks, and cleared her throat. Words. She just had to say some _words._

“Brittany,” Santana blurted out.

Shit, not that word. From the corner of her eye, she saw Brittany tilting her head curiously. Artie was frowning in confusion.

“Sorry, I mean… Okay,” Santana sat up, certain she could spin this somehow, “It may seem a little weird to you, but back here in the dark ages it was still crazy for girls to love girls and guys to love guys. But your Dad made sure that we felt safe loving whoever we chose.” 

There. Done. No need to say anything further. 

Next to her, she could feel Brittany glowing. The blonde had gestured playfully between the two of them as she spoke, and Santana couldn’t help but feel encouraged by that. So encouraged, in fact, that what happened next was totally out of her control. She barely even remembered deciding to do it. Santana forgot about the camera and turned to look directly at Brittany instead.

“For obvious reasons, I chose Brittany,” she smiled bashfully at the blonde, who was watching her with an inquisitive glint in her eye.

A part of her was conscious Artie was baring witness to all of this from behind his camera lens, but an even bigger part of her didn’t care. Her eyes remained locked on Brittany, like they were stuck there. Maybe they were.

Santana continued, exhaling nervously, “Except, I chose Brittany the same way a person chooses to breathe. Like, _they don’t._ Because a choice implies a second option, and maybe there are moments in life where you actually kid yourself into thinking there might be one. You think it, because it seems like a logical conclusion right? That there’d be a second choice. But the only alternative to breathing is… not breathing, and you’ll probably even give that a shot too, for the sake of trying it. You’ll hold your breath to see what happens. But it’s no use, because the same thing happens every time. You suffocate-”

“Okay, cut!” Artie yelled, yanking Santana out of her verbal trance, “Getting way off topic here. But I think I can work with what little we’ve already got, so I’m going to leave y'all alone for a minute. Because, well, I am _super_ uncomfortable.”

Without another word, Artie raced out of the auditorium. 

Brittany was watching her, eyes glistening, and Santana felt herself shrinking under the intensity of the other girl’s gaze. What the hell was she thinking?

“Sorry,” Santana mumbled sheepishly, “I got carried away.”

The blonde stood up, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be. That was sweet.”

They were standing incredibly close, nearly touching, and the air was thick between them. Santana could feel her breath becoming ragged, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of finally being close enough to breathe the other girl in again. Brittany was looking down at her, a soft smile adorning her features. It was the kind of smile Santana returned on impulse, because how could she not? It was Brittany. A happy Brittany brought out a happy Santana. That was just the way it worked with them.

“Santana,” Brittany breathed, “I-”

“Hey, Britt!” Sam popped out from the curtain behind them and the two girls jumped back from each other. 

Santana could feel her heart racing, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the interruption or just a side effect of being so close to the other girl. She ran her fingers through her hair, channeling all her emotions into annoyance towards Sam instead. 

“Kind of in the middle of something here, Trouts,” she cursed at him over her shoulder. 

Before Sam could respond, Brittany was squeezing her arm gently and rocking onto her tiptoes to look at him over the top of Santana’s head.

“What is it?” she asked, appearing far more patient than Santana had managed to be. 

“Sorry, I didn’t realise,” Sam winced, “Mike sent me to get you. He’s panicking. Said something about the choreography being all wrong for this afternoon.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Brittany responded, then Sam was gone. 

Santana could feel Brittany’s reservation towards leaving in the way she hovered above her, and felt the immediate need to reassure. 

“It’s okay,” she forced a smile, “You can go.” 

It didn’t exactly fool Brittany, who sighed before placing a hesitant kiss to Santana’s cheek, “I’ll come find you later.”

Although Santana nodded in agreement, she couldn’t help but get that sinking feeling in her gut again as she watched the blonde walk away from her. They only had a few hours left together before everyone, including her and Brittany, would need to go their separate ways. ‘Later’ had been their fallback a lot lately, but now it felt like it was creeping up on both of them far too quickly for anything to ever truly be resolved. 

What if they weren’t ready yet?

* * *

Once the group had performed their final number in the auditorium together, people cleared out fairly quickly. Kurt ran off to hook up with Blaine one last time before they flew back to New York, and Rachel was in the middle of saying her final goodbyes to Mr. Schue; so Santana assumed she’d be waiting here for at least another 72 hours. 

She stood idly in the middle of the empty stage, next to the piano that was waiting to be carted away to a new home. It was strange, being here alone in the place they’d all forged so many memories together. It felt like she was saying goodbye to an old friend. Santana almost felt stupid for feeling so sad about a building. 

“Dance with me?” 

It was little more than a whisper, then Santana felt soft hands settling against her hips and circling around her waist. She closed her eyes and leaned into the warm body pressed in behind her. Brittany tucked her chin into the other girl’s shoulder, swaying them slowly to a silent melody.

“This isn’t how we used to dance,” Santana sighed, her hands overlapping the other girl’s at her waist. They were well aware of the double meaning behind her words. 

Brittany hummed into her hair. “That might be a good thing.” 

Santana stalled, at which point she felt herself being turned carefully in towards the other girl’s chest. She let her hands rest against Brittany’s shoulders, thumbing at the fabric she found there. 

“How so?” she asked nervously, as Brittany continued to move them both in perfect rhythm. 

“I’ve been thinking about us a lot, like at least twenty seven times a minute.” Brittany rested her forehead against her own, “And maybe there’s a reason we kept going around in circles with each other at Rachel’s party.” 

Santana faltered, stepping back out of the other girl’s hold only to be twirled back into her chest again. Brittany held her tightly by the waist this time, as if unwilling to let go.

“Let me finish?” she pleaded softly. At Santana’s nod, she continued, “We keep trying to make the pieces of ourselves fit together like they used to. But I don’t think they do now.”

Santana stopped dancing, pulling back as far as Brittany’s grip would allow her to.This was it, the moment she’d been preparing herself for since they got back to Lima. Leave it to Brittany to wait until the eleventh hour to break her heart.

“Right,” Santana swallowed tightly, “That’s okay, we don’t have to-”

“Wait, listen,” Brittany cut her off, taking Santana’s hand carefully in hers, as if trying to reassure the girl despite the fact she was clearly about to shatter her heart into a million pieces. “You said you don’t feel safe being the same girl you were that summer of senior year, right? Well after everything that’s happened, I don’t feel right asking you to be her anymore either. I think if we keep trying to go back to the way things were then we’re just going to be sad all the time, because we’ll always feel like we’re disappointing each other.” 

Santana wasn’t sure how much longer she could listen to Brittany talking like this before her entire body gave out, but the girl didn’t even look close to finishing yet. She stood tall, trying to fight off the tears that threatened to spill out of her eyes. They’d left each other so many times before. 

This time, it felt final.

Brittany smiled sadly. “It really hurts that you felt like you needed to hide away the broken parts of yourself from me; like they mean you’re not good enough or something. I don’t want you to make yourself fit for me, Santana. Neither of us are the same people anymore, as much as we might want to be.” 

Santana wanted to run, but Brittany sensed her resistance and simply tugged her even closer. She drew Santana’s hand up until it was resting against her chest. She could feel the blonde’s heart beating a mile a minute beneath her fingertips. 

“So, I think we should take _this_ version of you.” Brittany grinned tearily, squeezing the hand at her chest, “And figure out how she fits in with this version of _me_ instead. Can we try that?”

Santana let out a watery gasp and pulled Brittany into a firm hug, gripping onto her furiously. She buried her head into blonde hair, breathing the other girl in. When they pulled away, Brittany was looking at her with so much love, so much _certainty,_ that she felt invincible.

“That was a really cruel way to go about wording that, Brittany,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes. 

“Sorry, I thought it’d be romantic but you kept pulling away and I forgot some of the words,” Brittany laughed, before apparently feeling the need to reassure, “I want to be with you Santana. Please, stop running.”

“No more running.” Santana responded, a ridiculously cheesy grin taking over her features. She felt more sure of herself, of _them_ , than she’d felt in weeks. “I want to be with you too. Always.”

Brittany grinned, titling her forehead back in to rest against Santana’s. For people who were talking about moving on from their old lives, they still seemed to have a propensity for giggling like a pair of school girls. Eventually, Brittany pulled back, linking both of their hands together with her eyes trained on Santana the entire time.

“Now, can we please just agree to let that be enough _for now_ ; and that we’ll work the rest out later…without you doing anything crazy, like making out with Quinn in front of me again?” Brittany raised an eyebrow.

Santana’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she collapsed her face into the other girl’s chest. She felt the blonde’s arms immediately close in around her.

“Yes,” she mumbled into Brittany’s shirt, “You got yourself a deal.” 

“Good,” Brittany hummed, and Santana pulled back just quickly enough to see the blonde’s face light up as she broke into a delighted chuckle. Santana felt a smile creeping across her lips, allowing herself to be captured by the sheer beauty of the girl in front of her. It reminded her of all those days in the back row of the choir room, when she’d done exactly the same thing. 

Maybe some of the old could stay, as long as the new was allowed in too.

“Can I kiss you?” Santana rasped.

“Don’t ever ask me that again,” Brittany scolded, “Because the answer will always be yes.” 

Santana giggled, then Brittany was pulling her into a kiss. It wasn’t passionate or all-consuming like their last one had been; they both knew they had plenty of time for that later. No, it was simply two mouths melting softly against one another; each finding solace in the gentle comfort provided by the other’s touch.

It felt like coming home. 

“Whatever happened to ‘starting together, ending together?’” Quinn’s voice echoed through the empty auditorium. She sauntered gracefully onto the stage and the two broke apart slightly to look at her.

“Quinn,” Brittany rolled her eyes, “I’ve already been over this, we’re not having a threesome with you.” 

Santana gawked, “Wait, what?” 

“She’s kidding.” Quinn jumped in.

“Am I?” Brittany raised an eyebrow. 

Santana tilted her head faux-curiously at Quinn. “Yeah, is she?” 

Off the look in Santana’s eye, Quinn eventually realised the pair were teasing and scoffed, cheeks flushing red with embarrassment.

“I was _actually_ talking about performing,” Quinn drawled, “The three of us didn’t do a single number together this week.” 

Santana felt her heart sink.

The Unholy Trinity.

They’d all been so scattered dealing with their interpersonal dramas that they hadn’t had found time to come together one last time to do what they were _really_ good at. Now it was too late.

“We still could.” Brittany’s hand subconsciously found the curve of Santana’s back, settling there. She eyed Quinn carefully, “As long as there’s at least six feet between you and Santana at all times.”

“Brittany,” Quinn laughed nervously, “We talked about this. I’m not interested-”

“That’s rude, Quinn. Why not?” Brittany argued, “I mean, look at her. She’s beautiful, she’s talented, her abs are amazi-” 

Santana grabbed Brittany by the arm soothingly, “Getting off track, Britt Britt,”

“Sorry,” Brittany pouted, looking to Quinn again, “We’re good, Quinn.”

Quinn nodded gratefully, clearing her throat.

The uncomfortable silence that followed made Santana want to crawl under a rock. She was confident things would be fine with Brittany and Quinn because ultimately Santana had never been able to tell Brittany anything other than the truth, and the blonde knew that. When she and Brittany talked that night on Rachel’s driveway, Santana had explained how it came to be that her and Quinn were a few seconds away from having sex in Rachel Berry’s family kitchen, and Brittany believed her. None of them thought for a second it had anything to do with love.

Not that kind of love, at least. 

It didn’t make it any less embarrassing that Brittany seemed determined to keep reminding them of the incident in the first place, though, and Santana knew Quinn felt the same way. Heck, the girl was still walking around telling everyone she was straight.

Santana clapped her hands together, desperate to redirect the conversation. “What was that about one last song?” 

“Yes,” Quinn wiggled her eyebrows, “There’s one that I’ve kind of been wanting to try since movie night.”

“Oh what, no way.” Santana shook her head furiously, “We are not doing that.”

She was overpowered by the other two girls as they folded her into a group hug. Brittany didn’t appear to know what was going on, but seemed far too focused on Santana to care what they were planning on singing anyway. Quinn nodded to the side of the stage where Piano Brad had spontaneously appeared. Santana assumed he must’ve been eavesdropping the whole time like he always used to when they were in school. Creep. He skulked over to sit in front of the keys and busted out the steady, familiar groove. 

The girls took their usual formation, with Quinn at the forefront, and performed one last time to a sea of empty chairs.

_You don’t own me, I’m not just one of your many toys_

Quinn idled between Santana and Brittany as they circled around her in a figure-eight. 

_You don’t own me, don’t say I can’t go with other boys_

She wagged a finger teasingly at Santana, who took that as her cue to jump in. 

_And don’t tell me what to do_

She shoved Quinn’s shoulder lightly, nudging the girl aside to take centre stage.

_Don’t tell me what to say_

Brittany and Quinn leant on her from either side, bopping softly to the melody 

_And please, when I go out with you_

Santana shimmied towards Brittany, who laughed at her and shimmied back. They sang the next line together:

_Don’t put me on display ‘cause_

All three of them took the chorus, bodies imitating the rocking motion from that classic Bette Midler movie scene Quinn seemed to love so much.

_You don’t own me_

_Don’t try to change me in any way_

_You don’t own me_

_Don’t tie me down ‘cause I’d never stay_

They broke apart and started spinning around the stage, all more carefree than they’d been in weeks. This wasn’t the flawlessly choreographed Unholy Trinity anymore. They weren’t performing for Coach Sylvester, or Mr. Schue or anyone else who expected them to be 100% perfect. They were just Quinn, Santana and Brittany.

And they were having a damn good time together. 

_I don’t tell you what to say_

_I don’t tell you what to do_

Quinn and Santana traded the lyrics like it was a vocal duel, their grins wider than ever. Brittany leapt in from behind, embracing Quinn in an overenthusiastic bearhug that seemed to startle the other girl.

_So just let me be myself_

Santana spotted Rachel, lingering feebly in the back of the auditorium watching them like she was afraid she might be caught trespassing. She pointed right at her, beckoning the other girl on stage.

_That’s all I ask of you_

Rachel beamed, racing up as the girls broke into the bridge and belting it out alongside them.

_I’m young and I love to be young_

Santana grabbed the diva by the hand, giving her a grateful smile and receiving one in return. She twirled her around and into Quinn, right as Brittany captured her own body and swept them into a waltz. They laughed giddily, breathing each other in.

_I’m free and I love to be free_

She could see Quinn and Rachel enjoying each other in exactly the same way, and raised a curious eyebrow at Brittany.

_To live my life the way I want_

But Brittany was looking at her, and only her; with such unbridled love that it sent Santana’s heart soaring to infinitely new heights.

_To say and do whatever I please_

Santana knew they were absolutely, undoubtedly going to get through this.

Together. 

Even if it took all the pamphlets in the world.


	14. Are You Drifting Through the Doubt? (Brittany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany reflects on the rest of their week in Lima.

Santana and Brittany’s week together in Lima could’ve been considered a bit of a disaster. 

_Santana had a meltdown in the choir room._

_Santana had a meltdown in the car park._

_Brittany attacked a stranger, narrowly escaping criminal charges._

_Santana threw a dinner party for her favourite New Directions, and didn’t invite Brittany._

_Santana had another meltdown in the choir room._

Brittany wasn’t an idiot. 

She knew all of those things were bad. 

But Brittany would’ve argued lots of good things happened that week too.

_Brittany reconnected with Santana over dinner at Breadsticks like no time had passed between them, and Santana invited her home._

_Brittany watched Santana fall asleep in her arms, for the first time in forever. Even if the circumstances surrounding them were less than happy._

_Santana found out Brittany’s reason for attacking the man on the football field and understood, like she always did._

_Brittany was accepted, and forgiven, in the space of one intentionally wrong answer to an unsolvable math equation._

_Santana knew Brittany was feeling lost without needing to be told, and helped her find herself again before anyone else even realised she was missing._

So no, Brittany didn’t care that much about the bad. In the short amount of time they’d spent together that week, Santana had made her feel more alive than she’d felt in months. That had to mean something. 

Before they performed Valerie together, Brittany hadn’t danced in a long time. 

She decided afterwards that she wanted to dance with Santana forever. 

Anything less would never be enough.

* * *

What happened in the choir room was a mistake.

They’d been so caught up in the moment (and what an _amazingly satisfying_ moment it had been), that Brittany hadn’t stopped to think about what it would mean for them. She hadn’t thought about what it would do to _Santana,_ who was definitely not ready to engage with her on that level right now. Brittany S. Pierce was a genius; this was something Santana had been telling her forever. But unbuttoning Santana’s jeans in that choir room had undoubtedly been one of the most stupid, thoughtless, idiotic things she had ever done in her life. This was a fact made abundantly clear to Brittany as she watched the love of her life, and best friend in the entire world, recoil from her like a scared animal.

This time when Santana ran away, she was way too fast for Brittany to catch up.

Brittany called Santana 38 times and left 27 voice messages in less than 24 hours. She’d lost count of how many texts she’d sent on top of that. It was because of these 38 unanswered calls and infinite number of ignored text messages that Brittany forced herself not to, under any circumstances, visit the Lopez family home to check on the other girl. A line had been drawn, and Brittany was clearly on the other side of it. She had to respect that. 

Even if it was killing her.

When Santana hadn’t shown up to day three of their McKinley reunion tour, Brittany was sad, but not surprised. Part of her of expected Santana to have already fled back to New York in a panic, most likely with her two unlikely new sidekicks/New York loft-mates reluctantly in tow. But Lady Hummel and Grandma Berry were sitting in the front row of the choir room, eyeing her awkwardly every thirty seconds as if waiting for her to notice she’d forgotten to put on underwear again. She’d double checked, and they were definitely on today, so the pair of drama queens must’ve heard what happened between her and Santana. It bothered her that they knew, but not nearly as much as the fact that there was _another_ member of the New Directions who was also noticeably absent from class that day. 

Quinn Fabray. 

Brittany hated that the dynamic between the Unholy Trinity had shifted so significantly that she now seemed to be the lonely one on that pointy end of the triangle where they used to leave Quinn out to dry all the time. She swallowed the distinct pang of jealousy she felt at the thought of being left out, and almost managed to hide it away until the very end of Mr Schue’s class. 

Almost.

It was Kitty who spoke up, scornfully remarking that the overall attractiveness of the group had dropped significantly without the two former head Cheerios present. It wasn’t that Brittany disagreed, Santana and Quinn were hot. Everyone knew that. She just didn’t appreciate being reminded that they weren’t there, and were probably off somewhere together, while Santana still wasn’t answering any of her calls. 

Rachel tried to shut the conversation down immediately with a glare rivalling that of the missing Unholy Trinity girls’ themselves; and Brittany assumed the diva’s new-found ability to appear intimidating might’ve had at least _something_ to do with Santana. That kind of annoyed her too. Unfortunately, it seemed the newer members of the New Directions weren’t so great at picking up on non-verbal cues. 

“You know what,” Unique quipped, “I don’t like how she went about it, but the bitchy little KittyKat has a point. Where are those two?” 

“Is it gross if I say I’m kind of picturing them hooking up in a janitor’s closet somewhere?” Jake asked earnestly, earning a slap in the chest from Mike and immediate disdain from the rest of the group. 

Brittany hadn’t stuck around to hear any more of it. 

She skulked down the empty hallway, bracing herself for the inevitable arrival of Rachel Berry; who she assumed would be following her out of an apparent sense of duty in her capacity as Santana’s self-appointed ‘new best friend.’ That whole relationship made Brittany feel even queasier than the time in junior year when Santana dated Dave Karofsky for prom votes. Brittany found herself outside their old lockers, and couldn’t help but reminisce about all the moments they’d shared together in that very spot. The good, and the not-so-good…

It felt infinitely lonelier without Santana standing there next to her. 

“She’ll come around, you know.” It was Kurt. He strutted towards her with a sympathetic look on his ridiculous duck face. 

Brittany mostly liked Kurt, so she opted not to be mean to him out loud. She was just really _tired_ of other people talking to her about Santana. Especially when it was people who would’ve happily never spoken to either of them ever again, less than twelve months ago. What right did he or Rachel have to lecture Brittany about their relationship? None, as far as she was concerned. 

She rolled her eyes at him, sinking to the floor against the lockers. Kurt joined her down there a few moments later, getting comfortable despite appearing a little reluctant to get his pants dirty. She assumed they were designer. 

“Did she leave?” Brittany asked quietly. Her mind drifted to Santana, probably relaxing back in New York with Dani already and acting like everything was okay. Even if it wasn’t. 

“No,” Kurt shook his head profusely, “Rachel dropped her back at her Mom’s place this morning. She’s just having some alone time.”

“With Quinn?” Brittany probed. She had to know. 

Kurt shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat, and Brittany knew the answer before it came out of his mouth. “Yes,” he grimaced, “She didn’t want me or Rachel there because we talk too much.” 

“That’s fair,” Brittany shrugged, “I wouldn’t want either of you there either.” 

The blonde did her absolute best to push aside the twinge of hurt she felt upon receiving confirmation that Quinn was indeed getting to be there for Santana when she wasn’t. It didn’t feel fair that other people were allowed in and she’d been shut out; like they all had season passes to watch a dance she’d helped choreograph, and now she had to wait out at the ticket booth with everyone else. But, just like she’d done when Santana first told her about Dani a few months ago, Brittany took comfort in the fact that at least _someone_ was there with the other girl. 

It just totally sucked that it couldn’t be her.

Kurt nudged her gently, and Brittany guessed she must’ve been frowning a lot because her face felt all crinkled. She decided to change the subject, and hopefully regain some clout back as the world’s leading expert in the field of Santana Lopez in the process.

“How come you know where she is anyway?” Brittany sulked, “I thought she was mad at you because you’ve been such a terrible friend since that night in the club.”

“Okay, first of all,” Kurt shot up defensively, “Santana repeatedly asked me not to talk to her about any of it.”

“And if she _asked_ you to shoot Blaine in the face, would you do that too?” 

As far as Brittany was concerned, a good friend might respect Santana’s wishes, but an even better one (some may even say a _best_ one) would know when Santana was acting against her own self interests and not let it slide so easily. Honestly, it pissed her off _these_ _people_ were the ones with the season passes now, and not her. Did they even try to appreciate the dance?

Kurt stopped. “Well, no but-”

“So you don’t do everything Santana asks you to,” Brittany commented brashly, “Just the things that suit you?” 

There was a shocked pause, then, to Brittany’s utter surprise, Kurt laughed softly. She raised an eyebrow, and looked over to him for an explanation. 

“I totally forgot,” he shook his head in disbelief. 

“Forgot what?” Brittany folded her arms, defensively. 

“It’s nothing,” Kurt waved her away, still chuckling, “I forget how perfect you guys are for each other sometimes, because you’ve been apart for so long. But then you attack me out of nowhere to protect her and I just… Ah, I just forgot.”

It was a little bit overwhelming for Brittany to be called out like that; especially by Kurt, who she was pretty sure was only on Santana’s top five list of people because he shared a brain with Rachel Berry. She found her gaze drifting down towards her shoes, not knowing where else to look. The pair were silent for a while, until Brittany figured she had nothing left to lose. 

“Do you think we’ve been apart for _too_ long?” she whispered. 

Feeling Kurt shift, Brittany looked back up at the boy. He was considering her carefully, as if weighing up how much information he was allowed to share. Either that, or she had something on her face again. Eventually, he sighed and relaxed further into the lockers. 

“Okay, Santana will murder me for telling you this,” Kurt conceded, tilting his head to look at her, “But our apartment hears the Monster Mash, Disco Duck _and_ the Different Strokes theme song at least eight times a week, when she thinks no one is listening. That’s all I’m saying.”

Brittany felt a smile overtaking her face faster than she’d bypassed the entire MIT graduating class at that mathletics competition a few weeks ago. The fact that Santana was still listening to their infinite playlist told her all she needed to know. There was hope.

As Kurt looped a comforting arm around her shoulder and pulled her in closer, she decided he might actually be an okay friend for Santana after all. Only someone genuinely close to Santana would know what those songs meant.

“I really want to help her.” Brittany pulled away from the hug. 

“We all do, Brittany,” Kurt rested his head against the locker, resigned.

As she watched him sigh in defeat, eyes filled with uncertainty, Brittany quietly decided not to blame Kurt anymore for being so useless when it came to helping Santana. 

How could anyone hope to dance with her if they didn’t know the steps?

* * *

Against all odds, Brittany S. Pierce graduated high school.

When Sue Sylvester called her name out, Brittany had been in shock. She didn’t remember standing up. She’d been confused, because she lost the right to ‘officially’ graduate when she left early for MIT. But then Mike was handing her a cap and holding out a robe for her and suddenly the _why_ didn’t matter so much. She just had to get on stage before Sue changed her mind. 

“It was all Santana,” Mike winked, wrapping the robe around her, “But you didn’t hear that from me.” 

Of course it was. 

As she ran up onto the stage, Brittany noticed her parents cheering her on from towards the back of the auditorium and her heart swelled. Santana had thought of everything. She sought the other girl out in the crowd because looking at anyone else, of _sharing_ this moment with anyone else, was utterly unfathomable.

Santana stood a few rows back from the front, applauding politely and trying her best to suppress a proud grin. Brittany locked eyes with her and mouthed a silent thank you. The unabashed smile she got in return nearly made her heart explode. It didn’t feel like nearly enough, given who they were and everything that was going on between them, but Brittany held onto it anyway. Besides, what she really wanted to do was considered a lot less PG-13 and would have definitely been more than Santana was ready for; especially with such a huge audience. 

Still, a girl could dream right?

* * *

Brittany had been late a lot of times in her life, and it rarely ended well for her. 

She’d been late to science class nearly every Wednesday, when she and Santana were busy hooking up in the janitor’s closet, and pretty much always got detention for it.

She’d been late in telling Santana she was failing senior year, and robbed them of the opportunity to go to college together because there was no time left to help her.

She’d been late that time her and Sam didn’t use a condom because the world was ending, and panicked so much about the possibility of ending up with a child in her life that didn’t have raven hair and a razor-sharp tongue that she’d gotten three speeding tickets on the way to the doctor’s office for an emergency check-up.

Brittany was well aware that being late had consequences.

None worse than the night she was late to Rachel Berry’s graduation party. 

She hadn’t meant to be late. After the ceremony, she’d raced back to her parent’s house and jumped headfirst into a three-hour long study on all the different psychologically proven methods she could find that helped people recover from a sexually-based trauma. She’d also researched extensively about how to be a better partner to someone who had gone through that kind of experience and come out the other side of it. 

In hindsight, it was something Brittany felt like she should’ve done sooner. 

All week she’d been trying to look after Santana the same way she’d always looked after Santana. But her talk with Kurt had reminded her that being with Santana was like a well rehearsed dance, and they’d come up with the choreography together a long time ago. That’s why it was so confusing now, because they’d gone solo for a while, and when they came back together some of the moves were a little different, even though the song was the same. It hurt a lot to think that they’d fallen out of step.

Up until today, Brittany was scared it might mean Santana didn’t want to dance with her anymore at all. But then she’d organised that incredible surprise at graduation, and Brittany was certain she’d been wrong about that too. As she stood on the stage, watching Santana, it occurred to Brittany that she’d been doing this all wrong. She’d spent so long trying to get them both back in time with the music that she’d missed the really obvious solution sitting there right in front of her. 

They just had to learn some new choreography.

So Brittany had done the research, because her brain was amazingly good at retaining information that interested her, and anything pertaining to Santana interested her by default; even if it involved trawling through medical journals online. Aside from that, Brittany had maybe also taken a little bit too long deciding what to wear. Because this would be their last night together unless they both did something to change that, and she had to do her part to make an impact on arrival. 

All of that was great, and well intentioned, of course. It just meant she was running nearly four hours late by the time she left home, and the party was almost over. It also meant that Santana was incredibly drunk when she got there. 

Not exactly the way she intended to start such an important conversation.

When she’d asked Santana to run away with her, she hadn’t meant it in the ‘run away forever into the sunset’ sense. Although, the more she thought about it, that was probably also an option she’d be _more_ than okay with. No, Brittany had just meant, ‘run away with me so we can wait for you to sober up and take as long as we need to work this out, even if that’s a week or two. Otherwise, this party is going to end and you’ll go back to New York and I’ll go back to MIT and we’ll both end up on our own for the rest of our miserable lives.’ 

For obvious reasons, Santana had misinterpreted the proposal and lashed out. 

So, yeah… It was becoming increasingly clear to Brittany that being late had a tendency to backfire.

* * *

When Santana fled the bathroom, Brittany took a brief moment to gather herself. She intended to follow the other girl to wherever she ended up, but then she’d heard yelling in the hallway and inadvertently witnessed one of Santana’s more savage takedowns of Rachel Berry through the crack in the bathroom door. Brittany couldn’t stand the diva, but even she felt like it had been a touch too harsh. 

Santana marched off down the hallway, and Brittany took that as her opportunity to open the door fully. As much as she wanted to ignore Rachel and walk right by, part of her felt obligated to at least check she was okay first. There had been so much pain behind Santana’s words; and the attack carried with it the kind of gravitas that could only be harvested from genuine emotional substance between two people. The words had been intended to wound, severely. Brittany could also tell by the uncharacteristic way in which Rachel barely fought back, that the girl might understand a little bit more about how to dance with Santana than she’d first given her credit for.

Maybe they could find some common ground in that. 

“Are you okay,” Brittany asked, startling Rachel into turning around to look at her. 

Rachel sniffed, “Yeah. Are you?” 

It was only then that Brittany realised her eyes were watering. She tipped her head back to will the tears away. 

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“I haven’t seen her get this bad before,” Rachel stuttered, “I don’t know-”

“It’s my fault,” Brittany cut the other girl off, “I’ll deal with it.”

Rachel had opened her mouth, about to argue, when a loud crash from the kitchen interrupted them. It was followed by yelling, and several other loud noises that sounded like smashing plates and bodies being thrown into walls. Brittany and Rachel eyed each other, then raced down the hallway towards the ruckus.

They arrived just in time to watch Santana shove Quinn against the bench and attack her in a frenzied kiss, amid a sea of broken crockery. Brittany wasn’t sure which part was worse: the fact that Santana was about two seconds away from fingering Quinn against the countertop; or the fact that Quinn was _letting her_. The two basically mauled each other right in front of them, and Rachel looked just about as crestfallen as Brittany felt. Then the whole thing was over and Quinn was pulling back, whispering something about not being the blonde Santana really wanted. 

Brittany contemplated the words, knowing full well she was ‘the blonde’ the other girl was referring to. She was reminded of Mr Schue’s wedding, when Santana and Quinn had danced closely all night long; far too close for two ‘just-friends.’ Brittany thought of Rachel’s comment only days before; enemies with benefits, who love each other… Quinn was the first person Santana called that night to pick her up from the hospital. Quinn had been the one Santana wanted there with her when she’d skipped school this week, after Brittany scared her away. She wasn’t sure the words and the facts matched up this time.

If Quinn wasn’t the blonde she wanted, then why the hell was Santana always running to her?

At Santana’s response, Brittany felt her heart fall out of her chest and dissolve into dust at her feet. 

“Sometimes, I wish you were.” 

Forget learning new choreography. 

Santana had changed the song.

* * *

Their talk in the driveway was long, but necessary. 

Brittany learned a lot, once she stopped crying. 

She learned about the missed phone call, which turned out to be a ridiculous misunderstanding. A hurtful misunderstanding. One that Brittany forced herself to see through, despite her heartbreak, because there was clearly something far more painful hiding underneath. 

So she had pushed, and probed, until they landed on the eventual truth of the matter; the ugly reality that had been keeping them apart all week. It was a broken, barely there confession that had rocked Brittany to her core.

“I can’t be that girl from senior year anymore, Brittany. But I don’t know how to be around you, if I’m not.”

Santana Lopez could be an absolute fool sometimes. 

Brittany didn’t _want_ the girl from senior year. 

She wanted the girl that was right in front of her. The girl from Breadsticks last Friday night, who ordered twelve different types of dessert with her and then complained it wasn’t enough. The girl from the math classroom, who’d gone out of her way to cheer her up then bought her a milkshake from the Lima Bean after lunch to seal the deal. Brittany wanted the girl she’d fallen into stride with so easily, time and time again, even if that girl only wore jeans now and ran away crying a lot more often than she used to. Brittany wanted the girl she sang Valerie with; the girl who brought her back to life with kind eyes, a velvety voice and a smile reserved only for the two of them.

It hadn’t been the right time for Brittany to say any of that, though. Santana wouldn’t have heard her properly from the bottom of the dark pit she’d chosen to have her side of the conversation from. She sat back to look at the sky, waiting for her brain to quieten down and land on an appropriate response, but it never came.

Instead, she asked about Quinn. Again, Brittany learned a lot.

Santana, on the other hand, needed to _learn_ to accept herself again. So Brittany could stop being mad.

Mad, because Santana’s love had felt like a jack in the box lately.

Mad, because Santana helped Brittany find herself again so easily this week, and it was time to return the favour but she had no idea where to start.

Mad, because there was a man out there going about his business as if he hadn’t broken one of the strongest people she’d ever known and made her feel ashamed of the love she felt for others. A love that Brittany fought so hard to get her to show in the first place. 

Also, the Quinn thing.

“Have I ruined this?” Santana’s voice wavered when she asked, and Brittany found even more things to be mad about. 

Like the fact that her best friend had been hiding away from her all week because she was petrified of no longer being good enough; and that, in doing so, she had imploded on herself so spectacularly that neither of them knew which way was up anymore. 

Loving Santana Lopez was hard. 

Not loving her was impossible.

Santana locked their pinkies together, and Brittany felt certain they’d be okay again someday soon.

That didn’t make the waiting any less difficult.

* * *

The last person Brittany wanted to speak to the morning after Rachel’s party was Quinn Fabray. 

She’d woken up quite early, after spending the night with Santana in Rachel’s guest bedroom. The pair had intended to go home, but Rachel offered the room up after seeing what a state they were both in. They fell asleep with their fingers interlaced, whispering nervous reassurances to each other under the cover of dark. When Brittany awoke, it was to a mess of tangled limbs and hands that had worked their way into somewhat inappropriate places out of habit more than anything else. Santana’s head was buried tightly into Brittany’s chest, and she looked peaceful as she slept. That alone made Brittany feel alright for a while too. 

Eventually, Santana had woken up and caught her staring. Her brown eyes were always wider than usual in the morning, and a tentative smile teased at the edge of her lips as she hummed a shy ‘hello’ into Brittany’s shoulder. Brittany felt her skin come alive under the vibration. It was instinctive, the way she found herself pulling Santana in closer. She felt shaky hands tracing over her shirt to settle softly at her waist, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was one of those moments that made it impossible to believe there was any reality in which she and Santana Lopez weren’t destined to end up together.

There was just _so much_ they needed to talk about first. 

And so little time. 

When Santana excused herself to shower, Brittany felt the immediate loss of the other girl’s warmth. She made her way to the kitchen in the hope of finding something to eat that wasn’t one of Rachel’s weird vegan foods. 

Quinn was leaning against the kitchen bench, sipping tea and looking far too dignified for someone who had been two seconds away from screwing Brittany’s soulmate on that very countertop less than twelve hours ago. Brittany brushed past the blonde, determined to reach the freshly brewed pot of coffee behind her without any physical altercation occurring between them. She heard Quinn clear her throat and set the teacup down on the bench.

“We should talk,” Quinn spoke evenly. It was infuriating. 

“Sure, Quinn,” Brittany poured herself a drink casually, “Did you have a particular topic in mind?” 

The other blonde scoffed, and Brittany wanted nothing more than to spin around and douse her in hot coffee for being so brazen. She didn’t though, because unlike Quinn, Brittany actually possessed some semblance of self control. 

“Brittany,” Quinn sighed, “It didn’t mean anything.” 

Brittany turned to face her, sipping her coffee. She didn’t enjoy hearing _anyone_ downplay Santana’s importance to that effect, even if it was technically for her own benefit. In fact, it made her livid. Especially given that it wasn’t true. 

“Yes it did.”

Quinn shifted uncomfortably. “Listen, whatever Santana told you,” she scratched her forehead, “I’m not-”

“Gay?” Brittany chortled, “Straight girls don’t fuck other girls, Quinn.”

It was harsh. Maybe even too harsh, but Brittany didn’t care. She was angrier at Quinn than she’d been at Santana, because at least with Santana there was a reason she’d acted out last night; however hurtful it may have been. Also, Brittany was in love with Santana, which made her a little biased in terms of the whole forgiveness thing. She wasn’t in love with Quinn though, and she didn’t understand her either. That meant she had every reason to be furious. 

“I got caught up in the moment,” Quinn’s eyes were locked on the floor, “I’m sorry. It was counterintuitive.”

“Do you love her?” 

It was the question that had been on her mind all night long. Brittany and Santana had talked at length on the driveway, and eventually arrived at the indisputable fact that while Santana loved Quinn, she wasn’t _in love_ with her. Santana had also admitted she only leant on Quinn when she felt there was no one else left, which was yet another knot in their relationship Brittany imagined they’d need to untangle together soon. 

It didn’t mean Quinn necessarily felt the same way as Santana, though. After all, she had kissed her back _very enthusiastically_ , with tongue. Brittany had never seen a straight girl do that, and anyone even slightly into girls would be inexplicably drawn to Santana. How could they not be, right? Just look at her. So, the only two options were that Quinn was either straight and crazy, or not straight and totally in love with Santana. If the three of them were ever going to move on from this, Brittany had to find out which one it was.

“What?” Quinn floundered.

“Santana,” Brittany reaffirmed, “Do you love her?” 

Quinn answered with absolute resolve. “Yes, but not like that.” 

It made Brittany want to laugh, because Quinn and Santana’s answers were so similar it felt like they’d secretly compared notes before class. They loved each other in their own, very weird way. That much was clear. Brittany supposed she could learn to live with that as long as they both kept their tongues to themselves next time, or at the very least invited her to join in.

Actually, she wasn’t sure she’d be into that either.

Had the circumstances been any different, Brittany might’ve congratulated the two of them for finally learning how to be friends who _didn’t_ stab each other in the back every chance they got. The timing no longer felt quite right for that though. She rolled her eyes, reluctantly accepting Quinn’s response.

“Santana wasn’t in a great headspace last night,” Brittany spoke carefully, “I guess I’m just having trouble working out why you kissed her back.”

“Well, if you ever figure that out,” Quinn laughed mirthlessly, “Feel free to let me know.”

The comment threw Brittany off guard, and she watched the other blonde fiddle nervously with her hands. Quinn looked conflicted; ashamed, even. Only then did it occur to Brittany that she and Santana might not be the only members of the Unholy Trinity working through some sort of complex identity crisis that week. It made sense that she’d missed it. Isn’t that how it’d always been with them? Santana and Brittany, together in the background, and Quinn out front; poised to take the limelight but infinitely more lonely for doing so. 

Maybe things hadn’t changed as much as she thought, after all.

Brittany felt guilty. For all that she’d messed up, Quinn was her friend. A friend who had sat down at rock bottom with Santana for months, keeping her company until she was ready to try and come back up. But she’d never thought to question what Quinn was doing so far down there in the first place. 

“Are you okay, Quinn?” she asked, probably far too late.

“Not really.” Quinn choked back a sob.

Ugh. It was so typical of Quinn to play the sympathy card when she was in trouble, but it worked every time. Brittany shuffled over to place a tentative hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. She felt Quinn’s hand reach up to cover her own.

“You’re mad at me aren’t you?” Quinn sniffed, “For not calling you, that night at the hospital.”

Brittany stiffened. Of course she was. Sure, her and Quinn weren’t as close with each other anymore as they were with Santana. They had barely talked at all since Quinn left for Yale. But they were still _friends._ Starting together, ending together. That was the deal. 

Quinn had left her out of the fold about something that was so much bigger than any of them. Something that would have traditionally fallen under Brittany’s remit, because she was supposed to be Santana’s person. As they stood there in the kitchen together, there was an implicit understanding between the two blondes that Quinn owed it to all three of them to have made that phone call when Santana couldn’t. The fact that she had chosen not to felt like a betrayal of everything they stood for.

“Yeah, I am mad about that.” Brittany admitted, “But also, the kissing.”

Quinn chuckled uneasily, and Brittany took that as permission to let her arm drop from the other girl’s shoulder. She shifted back, trying desperately not to visualise that horrifying borderline-pornographic scene from last night as she leant next to Quinn on the bench in question.

“If I called you, she would’ve cut me out too.” Quinn sighed, “Who’d be left?”

“Rachel… Kurt?” Brittany was playing devil’s advocate. 

“Not the same.”

Quinn was right. Although their brief interaction last night had shown Brittany that Rachel at least somewhat understood Santana, the girl would never be on the same wavelength often enough to fully compete. Kurt was totally clueless, but he tried, so Brittany had given him points for that. 

Santana wasn’t an easy person to dance with. 

She supposed that’s why the idea of Santana and Quinn had been so much more difficult to stomach, even without the kissing part. Because the truth was that Quinn fundamentally _got_ Santana on a deeper level, when most people were barely comfortable scratching the surface. If anyone was ever going to dance with Santana when Brittany couldn’t, then it would inevitably be Quinn who fell into step with her. No one else even came close.

“Look, I screwed up last night,” Quinn brushed a strand of hair out of her eye as she straightened up. She looked slightly more sure of herself now. Determined. “But I _did_ call, Brittany.” 

Technically, that was correct. 

Quinn had called last Thursday night. 

Tina, Sam and Artie had all texted Brittany the minute the New Directions broke up. MIT was busy, though, and they had a lot of math stuff for her to do, so she had no intention of going back to Lima to relive memories of an era she’d barely even left behind yet. That was, until Quinn called her to say something was wrong with Santana. They’d organised flights and a Friday night date at Breadsticks within the hour.

Brittany folded her arms, ignoring the pointed look Quinn was now throwing in her direction in favour of reaching for her coffee. “Why last week? There would’ve been so many times before then when you could’ve contacted me.”

“I saw an opportunity, and I took it.” Quinn stated simply, like it was the only rational argument she could’ve possibly presented to justify the timing of her machinations.

Brittany turned to the other blonde. “Do you still think it was the right decision?” 

They both heard it.

The question behind the question. 

The one that might’ve been a little selfish, but that Brittany needed an answer to nonetheless. The one that begged for reassurance; any kind of sign this last week had been worth it. The one that agonised over whether or not the numerous breakdowns, fights, midnight mishaps and tear-filled silences they’d shared had all been for nothing. The one that asked whether her being here had hindered more than it had helped. 

It had to be asked. Because right now all Brittany had to go on was the fact that Santana loved her, and that Santana was scared to be around her. That Santana had _actively_ _hid_ from her. She hated the thought of one of those things outweighing the other. Under no circumstance would Brittany S. Pierce allow herself to be the person who brought more pain into Santana’s life, even if it meant living the rest of hers alone. 

Brittany was confident that Quinn would be able to tell her the truth regardless of whether it broke them all apart. She was also probably the only other person proficient enough in all things Santana to be able to make that assessment for them. Except, maybe Maribel Lopez. But Quinn was closer in proximity right now.

“I think,” Quinn shrugged, “We should’ve called you in _months ago_.” 

Yes, it was selfish. 

It was also exactly what Brittany needed to hear. 

Then Rachel Berry had drifted into the kitchen looking decidedly worse for wear, and the conversation was over. Brittany and Quinn waited for her to say something, but she bypassed them both entirely. She was scanning the room suspiciously, clearly checking for someone else instead.

“She’s in the shower.” Brittany supplied. 

“Good,” Rachel huffed, picking up her wallet and keys from the bench, “Tell her to lock up when she leaves. Quinn, do you need a ride?”

Upon hearing her name, Quinn’s face had been overtaken by the same mix of fear and confusion Brittany saw while she grilled her about Santana earlier. She gathered herself and nodded politely. Meanwhile, Rachel looked more tense than she’d been that time at sectionals when Mr. Schue gave Santana the solo and made her sing back up the whole time. Brittany raised an eyebrow as she watched the pair leave. The air was thick between them; their movements rigid. They walked a fraction too close together the whole way out the door, perfectly in sync despite their best efforts to appear anything but. She shook the thought off as quickly as it came.

Surely not?

* * *

In the end, it was Brittany’s Mom who helped her figure out what to say. In a backward, Whitney S. Pierce sort of way.

Santana went to McKinley early to try and find Rachel before class. That meant Brittany had an hour or two to spare before there’d be an opportunity for them to talk again. Her conversation with Quinn had given her the confidence to say what she’d wanted to say back on the driveway. She was just unsure how to go about it. 

Usually Brittany would _do_ something to get her point across, like make a t-shirt or playlist or fill a room with lilies (she hadn’t done that one yet, but it was on the list). Showing Santana how much she loved her had always been easy. It was kind of their thing: Brittany showed, Santana told; occasionally they swapped for good measure. But it was already nearly noon and Brittany wasn’t sure if she’d be able to track down a group of sixty Santana lookalikes quickly enough to help her send the right message today. So she’d have to stick with words. 

Words could be hard sometimes.

When she arrived home, her Mom and Dad were in the living room. They asked how the party was, and in all her tired rambling, a week’s worth of words came tumbling out before she could stop them. Her Mom had gone into shock, and her Dad just looked insanely confused. That was pretty normal for him.

This wasn’t the kind of stuff she’d usually discuss with her parents, for a very good reason. 

“Hold on,” Pierce Pierce frowned, “So Santana _isn’t_ the same girl you were dating last year? My God, they looked so alike.”

“Pierce, can you go to the store and get some milk or something?” Whitney Pierce frantically ushered her husband off the couch and out of the living room, “You’re totally blowing this for us.”

Brittany waited until her Dad left, un-phased by his usual inability to read the room. Her Mom took her by the hand and sat them both down next to each other on the sofa. Whitney squeezed her knee, smiling kindly. 

“What do you want to do, sweetheart? Should I call the MIT and ask them to pack away your thermometers?” 

Brittany’s Mom was not a particularly clever woman, even if she ran circles around her Dad. But it warmed Brittany’s heart that at no point had she tried to talk her into staying at MIT when life, and Santana, was pulling her in another direction. There was no doubt about it. Brittany would not be returning to MIT. 

“I can’t find the words to make it right, Mom.” Brittany spoke quietly. She was careful not to phrase it as a question, because having been raised by Whitney S. Pierce, she wasn’t naive enough to expect a helpful answer from her. Not about something like this.

Whitney straightened up and looked her daughter in the eye, speaking with intent. “Brittany, I don’t know if you know this, but Santana is the one who told us you were graduating. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been there, since you don’t go to that school anymore. So we had no reason to be in the auditorium.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Brittany loved her Mom so much, but sometimes the woman could be a little obtuse. 

“Oh okay, she told you already? I guess she would have.” Whitney let out a flustered sigh, “Well Santana came over here, did she tell you about that? She came over, and she sat with your father and he asked her the same question about New York twenty times, because he kept forgetting the answer; and _not once_ did she get half as annoyed at him as I do. I’ve never seen anyone as smart as Santana be so patient with your father in all my life.”

Brittany wasn’t sure where any of this was going, but felt a warm tingle in her chest upon hearing Santana had visited her parents, even if she was a bit puzzled as to how she’d found the time to sneak away with all that had happened that week. Usually by now, Brittany would try to shut her Mom up before things spiralled out of control, but she kind of wanted to hear where this story went. 

“You know, she’s always been like that with him.” Her Mom continued, “Last week, last year… even that time he set your Cheerios uniforms on fire and you were caught without your clothes, remember that? She just put the fire out, in her little red booty shorts, with that extinguisher you stole from the mall when you were twelve, then helped him re-light the candle.”

Whitney giggled to herself, while Brittany’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. _Of course_ she remembered the time her Dad had caught them half naked during one of their Sweet Valley High cuddle sessions. He had been so startled that he knocked a nearby candle onto their discarded Cheerios uniforms, burning them, and most of Brittany’s bedroom carpet, beyond repair. 

It was kind of hard to forget.

“Anyway, I was sitting there,” Whitney posed deliberately in a seated position, seemingly forgetting she was already in one, “And I thought about that time Santana went away to become a cage dancer, and you were just so sad.”

Wait, how did she know Santana had been a cage dancer?

Whitney clasped a hand against her own heart, “All I could think… was how it felt like she never left. She just walked through that door after a year of barely ever stopping by, because she lives in New York, and said she’d organised for you to graduate. Just like that. Then I thought of that time earlier this year too, when the MIT called and you were so scared to go that you wouldn’t tell us, or that fish boy, what was wrong. But Santana just dropped in from New York, because that’s where she lives now, and you opened right on up to her like a venus fly trap.”

Brittany shuffled impatiently in her seat. She knew better than to try and steer her Mom back on track once she got going, but she was running short on time today. As usual, Whitney was oblivious. 

“What’s happened to that darling young girl sounds horrible, Brittany, and I’m not sure how to help either of you but… well Santana fit in just as much here the other day as she always did. I think if she feels differently, then maybe she’s just nervous about things changing, like you were with the MIT before she left her cages to come help.” 

Brittany absorbed the words. She could tell her Mom was gearing up towards whatever big finish she had in mind so she hung on every sentence, hoping to find meaning wherever she could.

“The way I see it, is you two are like one of those Rubric cubes you liked so much when you were little. Because you’ve got all these different coloured pieces that look pretty together no matter which way you spin them, and they’ll never come apart even if you pull at them _really hard_ like your Dad does when he finds one in the store.”

“Mom,” Brittany groaned, “That’s not how those work.”

Whitney waved her away, “Oh I know, Honey. But the only way you ever solved that thing was when you stopped copying the picture on the box and played with the patterns that were already there instead. Everything else fit together when it was ready.” 

And in that moment, Brittany found the words.

She thanked her Mom, before the woman left to go and help her Dad. He’d been trying to get the car started the whole time they were talking.

Then, Brittany’s phone vibrated, and she opened it to find a text message from Artie about some sort of mini documentary he was filming as a farewell for Mr. Schue. He wanted to interview her in the auditorium that afternoon. 

_Brittany: Solo?_

_Artie: Yeah, everyone is. Why?_

Her fingers tapped out a response of their own accord, as a plan rapidly began to form in her once-in-a-generation, genius-level brain. She hit send, and the wheels were set in motion.

_Brittany: I think you need a two-shot._

* * *

Despite Sam Evan’s unfortunate timing, Brittany had eventually managed to say what she wanted to say to Santana. She jumbled the words up a bit, and Santana tried to run away crying like ten times, but they got there in the end. 

They kissed.

They danced.

They would _learn_ to be in sync with each other again.

So, all in all, Brittany would say it hadn’t been such a bad week. 

What did one kind-of-bad week matter in the grand scheme of things anyway, right?

They had so many more ahead of them now.


	15. Over Futile Odds, and Laughed at by the Gods (Santana/Brittany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana goes to therapy, Brittany makes a decision

Santana and Brittany had lost count of the number of times someone had tried, and failed, to understand their relationship.

Ultimately, it was because very few people were allowed to catch more than a brief glimpse of it.

Even a brief glimpse into the wonderfully exclusive dimension in which their relationship existed would still never be more than 0.00001% of the full picture. 

People could judge, but they would never understand.

The pair had collected countless pieces of evidence to support this over the years.

**Exhibit A:** When people thought they were just hooking up for attention at parties, not realising the real show didn’t start until after everyone else went home. 

( _And what a grand ol’ show it was)._

**Exhibit B:** When Artie thought Santana was manipulating Brittany, because he didn’t respect her intelligence enough to comprehend that the blonde knew _exactly_ what she was doing behind his back.

_(Their feeble ‘plumbing’ excuse had been a way of rationalising something neither of them were quite ready to acknowledge yet; Santana in particular)._

**Exhibit C:** When Finn taunted Santana in the hallway about Brittany not loving her back, which was so unbelievably unfounded, because they’d confessed their love to each other countless times already.

_(Just never in front of a live audience)._

**Exhibit D:** When Sam told Santana that Brittany was better off with him, and to let go of any hope she had of the two of them eventually reconciling. 

_(As if)._

The list goes on. 

Brittany and Santana were no strangers to receiving unsolicited advice from people who barely knew the first thing about them.

Both lived in constant fear the other one might listen to it one day.

* * *

The therapist’s office was quiet. 

Mostly, because no one was talking.

Santana had arrived about five minutes ago, and after the initial ‘hello’ phase they’d fallen into a silence so uncomfortable it rivalled the week-long hiatus she and Kurt had taken from speaking to each other that time she spilt wine on his _Facts of Life_ DVR collection. 

The therapist, Kathy Something-or-other, specialised in helping victims of rape, childhood trauma and PTSD. At least, that’s what her website said. Rachel had made several unauthorised and incredibly pushy phone calls to verify that the woman was actually good at her job. So, it should’ve been legit. 

Santana wasn’t so sure anymore though. It seemed like this lady was charging upwards of $200/hour to stare blankly at her from behind pointy shaped glasses while she doodled characters in her little notepad based on nothing whatsoever. It was unsettling, and a huge waste of her parents’ hard earned cash.

They waited another few minutes before Santana finally broke. 

“Okay, I’m not paying you to sit and stare at me, lady,” she huffed, “You’d better start talking before I go _all Lima Heights_ up in here.” 

Kathy had been calm, “I’m not entirely sure what that means... what would you like us to discuss today, Santana?” 

Santana paused. Was she supposed to just… tell a stranger what had happened to her? Logically that made sense, but the words wouldn’t come out. It was another moment before Kathy spoke again.

“Sometimes,” she smiled a little bit too kindly, “People find it difficult to open up during their first session. That’s okay.”

“Well yeah, the more sessions it _takes_ them, the more you cash in on these pointless little staring contests, right?” Santana sneered. 

“Do you always lash out at people when they show you compassion?” Kathy didn’t miss a beat.

“Only when the person is really fucking annoying.” 

It felt wrong the minute it rolled off her tongue, but Santana stayed firm, mostly because it was too late to take it back anyway. Jesus, how was she _already_ failing therapy?

But Kathy had barely flinched at the reflexive jibe. Clearly, in all her dealings with nut jobs of varying shapes and sizes she’d developed some sort of immunity to it all. Nonetheless, Santana felt the need to correct the course they were on.

“I’m sorry. I have rage,” she mumbled, “Sometimes it slips out without my permission.” 

Kathy propped her pen against her pad, tilting it to the side curiously, “Is that why you’re here? To work on your anger?”

“God, no.”

Santana shifted uncomfortably in her seat. While some part of her knew she’d have to actually say something out loud at some point in this process, the act of actually doing so was way more difficult than it’d been in her head. 

She thought of Quinn and Rachel, and the way they looked at her the night of the party when she’d exploded at both of them in alarmingly different ways. She thought of Brittany, who was currently packing up her dorm at MIT to come and be with her in New York. Brittany, who she’d made cry in that driveway. Brittany, who she’d made agonise over her in the dark for far too long. Brittany, who would endure all the suffering in the world if it meant the two of them could be together, but who absolutely did not deserve to have to do any of that at all. 

Santana was here for them.

If she helped herself along the way, then that was fine too.

Kathy waited patiently, and it occurred to Santana that the woman must’ve been expecting her to continue. The fear of falling into another one of those godawful silences for the next half hour was more than enough motivation to speak up.

“Something happened to me,” Santana stuttered, “I need some help, like… dealing with it.”’

“Well,” Kathy nodded, “That’s a start.”

Santana could already tell this woman was going to annoy the crap out of her.

* * *

Brittany sat in the Dean’s office, examining one of the dusty old books atop the desk. It always disturbed her that smart people seemed to surround themselves in so much dust. The microbes could have a detrimental impact on a person’s lungs. Not that she was a particularly avid cleaner herself, but she liked to think she kept things slightly tidier than the rest of them. Because she tried to be kind to her lungs. 

Maybe that’s why she was a genius and the rest of them were simply ‘smart.’ 

The door cracked open and Theodore Walker, Dean of the Mathematics Department, ambled in. He was flanked by Professor Ugly Glasses, who experimented on Brittany so much she refused to acknowledge his real name, and Professor Donaldson; Brittany’s mathematics foundations teacher and the only female lecturer in the faculty. All three of them regarded her with a peculiar kind of concern. 

“Ms. Pierce, I hope you don’t mind me bringing you here today.” Dean Walker spoke carefully, “A couple of your professors and classmates have expressed some… concern over your mental state since you returned from Lima last week.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Brittany spoke coolly, determined not to let them get inside her head.

She could do this.

“We saw you scaling the side of the dormitory building on Monday night, Brittany.” Unlike her male colleagues, Professor Donaldson looked genuinely concerned.

Brittany had always liked her the most.

“I’m an avid climber,” Brittany shrugged, “You guys don’t have a gym, so I had to improvise.” 

Not true. Brittany had been trying to covertly set up an advanced pulley system to help her lower some of the heavier objects out of her dorm room window. After all, she could hardly pack everything up and move it out into the hallway, could she? People would realise she was leaving. 

Professor Ugly Glasses wasn’t in the mood for games, “We also discovered you’ve hired a removal company to transport your belongings to New York later this week. Would you care to enlighten us?”

Brittany cursed under her breath. She should’ve known better than to get her roommate to help with booking the movers. The girl could be such a snitch sometimes. 

“Fine,” Brittany confessed, “I’m dropping out and moving to New York, because I hate it here.”

The three academics in front of her recoiled in shock. The Dean and Professor Ugly Glasses started muttering to each other in a flurry of panic, and Brittany probably could’ve figured out what they were saying if she cared enough to listen. Professor Donaldson was the first to speak up. 

“Why New York?” she asked. 

“My girlfriend lives there,” Brittany shrugged. 

Based on the incredulous look she received from all three of her professors, Brittany assumed that answer was not something they considered acceptable. But other answers, like 1.77200452 or the value of X in relation to Y didn’t really make sense in this context, so the truth was all she had. 

When Professor Ugly Glasses sat down in the chair opposite her and started rifling through one of the desk drawers, Brittany braced herself. She could guess what was coming next. It was the very reason she’d been trying to sneak out under the cover of dark in the first place. Because, in being open with MIT about her intention to leave, they would predictably hit her with the iron-clad failsafe that had been in place since the commencement of her highly unusual enrolment there, and they'd end up in exactly the kind of messy confrontation they seemed to be heading towards right now. Professor Ugly Glasses’ was waving it brazenly at her like a victory flag. 

The contract.

* * *

Within half an hour, Santana and Kathy had covered off a surprising amount of content. 

They talked about Finn, and the subsequent burgeoning of her unlikely codependent friendship with Rachel.

They talked about the club, and the man in the baseball cap.

They talked about Dani, whom Santana had neglected to tell about the incident.

They talked about Brittany. A lot. 

“Let’s circle back to Dani for a moment,” Kathy titled her head to the side, “You two are still together?”

Santana winced, “Yeah, but only because she won’t answer her damn phone.”

They had been back from Lima for over a week. Santana was ready to talk to her girlfriend the minute they arrived home, but Dani had texted her while they were in the air to say that her roller derby team made it into some national championship tournament in LA, and that she’d be out there competing for a week. Santana didn’t even know the girl was _on_ a roller derby team. Every time she tried to call, Dani was apparently too busy to pick up. So she was stuck, because there was no way she’d be the bitch who broke up with her girlfriend via text message. Especially not when the girlfriend had been as great as Dani. 

So, _technically,_ Dani and Santana were still a couple. 

And Brittany was due to arrive in town very soon.

It was really stressing her out.

“Has she neglected you like this a lot throughout your relationship? Ignored calls? Missed any dates?” Kathy asked, seemingly curious more than anything else. 

Santana shuffled in her seat, “No. She’s been fine. Amazing, actually. Why does it matter?” 

“Sometimes, after a trauma, we latch onto old comforts as a safety measure, even if they aren’t the right fit anymore.” Kathy clicked her pen, “If you don’t feel your needs are being met in your current relation-”

Oh hell no. 

“Brittany isn’t a fucking safety measure, _Kathy,_ ” Santana snapped, “She’s the love of my life.” 

The longer they interacted, the more Kathy seemed like the most chilled out human to ever _chill_ , because she barely blinked twice at any sign of hostility, even though there’d been a lot of it today. Santana wondered if maybe she’d prescribed herself some kind of drug to make her zone out, since she was probably dealing with crazies worse than Santana all the time. She was pretty sure her Dad’s colleagues prescribed themselves all kinds of weird shit to get through the day, but maybe that was more of a Lima thing.

“Okie dokie,” Kathy hummed melodically. Nope, definitely not a Lima thing. “And you mentioned she’ll be moving in with you when she gets here?” 

“Yes.” 

“How do you think that might impact your sleeping arrangements with Rachel, if I may ask?”

Santana faltered. They hadn’t really talked about any of that yet. 

Crap.

Surely Rachel wouldn’t still expect the two of them to share a room together, right? Then again, Santana didn’t actually _have_ a bed, outside of Rachel’s room, to share with Brittany in the first place. Also, there was the whole Rachel not being able to sleep without Santana thing; and Santana potentially not being able to… 

The logistics didn’t matter. They’d work it out.

Probably.

“We’ll put up another curtain,” she shrugged dismissively. 

Santana gulped. She and Kathy had only known each other for about thirty-five minutes, but judging by the way the woman raised her eyebrow at the response, she was starting to fear this strange lady already knew her far too well. 

Ugh.

* * *

Brittany sat with her arms folded, tapping a finger impatiently while she waited for Professor Ugly Glasses to finish his ten minute-long speech outlining all the reasons she was legally required to remain enrolled at MIT.

Namely, because if she dropped out before the end of the semester, she had to pay back an entire year’s worth of tuition and accomodation expenses. Which she obviously could not afford to do, especially since those expenses included a disturbing number of takeout orders for her, her roommate and the rest of their classmates.

“Well,” Ugly Glasses smirked triumphantly, “What will it be?”

Brittany hid a smirk of her own, because once again these people had confused her charming quirkiness with stupidity. They’d been doing it ever since she arrived; treating her like a genius with the math and an idiot with everything else.

“You should read the contract closer,” she informed them casually, “Specifically, line twelve on page thirty-six.” 

She examined her nails, as Ugly Glasses frantically flipped through the pages; confusion evident on his face. The Dean hovered nervously behind him, while Professor Donaldson simply stood by as if watching a rerun of her favourite cable TV show. 

There was a minute of anticipatory silence, then Ugly Glasses’ face fell. Brittany mouthed along with him proudly as he read the words aloud for everyone else’s benefit, his voice laced with defeat. “The signatory reserves the right, at any time, to take a leave of absence from their studies for an undefined period, if such an event arises where failing to do so may impact negatively on their overall physical and/or mental wellbeing.”

“Sadness clause, y'all.” Brittany mimed a mic drop, but the gesture was completely lost on the living fossils in front of her.

“I don’t get it,” Professor Donaldson tilted her head, “You seem fine.” 

“Mhmm,” Brittany shook her head, leaning forward to poke at the paper, “Line fourteen please.” 

It was Dean Walker who read next, from over Ugly Glasses’ shoulder. “The Massachusetts Institute of Technology, in its resolute commitment towards diversity and inclusion, agrees that it will not, under any circumstances, mandate a formal reason be provided for such an absence.”

“Who the hell puts a clause in there like that?” Ugly Glasses spat, throwing the papers down. 

“I do,” Brittany shrugged, “But you guys are the ones who let me, so I guess you do too.”

Professor Donaldson stifled a laugh, looking pointedly at the Dean, “How did that get through legal, Walker?” 

Brittany watched smugly as the Dean shrunk down to about half of his usual size. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “She wrote her amendments in crayon, we assumed…”

“You mean no one _read_ them?” Ugly Glasses squawked.

“Never get a TA to do a lawyer’s job, am I right?” Brittany teased, knowing full well that was exactly what happened. The TA in question was her roommate. 

Like Brittany said, that girl was a total snitch. 

Professor Ugly Glasses stormed out of the room like a five year old who’d just had his favourite toy confiscated, while Professor Donaldson shook her head in amused disbelief. Dean Walker looked completely flustered, and flopped down in his chair.

It brought great pleasure to Brittany to watch the esteemed man in front of her flounder in the face of her fastidious legal acumen. She probably should’ve been mad that they underestimated her again, but honestly, it was routine at this point.

Eventually, the Dean straightened his tie and squared up against her, as if trying to recover what little was left of his dignity. He leant forward, clasping his hands together on the desk with an intimidating frown. 

“Ms Pierce,” he spoke sternly, but his eyes were pleading, “Are you really going to throw away your life like this? Over some _girl?_ ”

Brittany was unperturbed. She leant forward, mimicking his position with a raised eyebrow.

“Sir, the only way I’d be throwing my life away, is if I stayed here.”

* * *

In five minutes, Santana’s first therapy session would officially be over. 

It had been a real rollercoaster. She’d yelled a little bit more, cried a lot, and maybe thrown a magazine or two, but a tonne of cards had been laid on the table for careful examination. It was exhausting.

Kathy was also finally starting to understand that there was one non-negotiable fact amid all the other murky grey crap Santana had come to recognise as her life in its current state. 

She and Brittany S. Pierce were meant to end up together. 

The oddball psychologist was welcome to poke around in and unpack the rest of it; including any issues relating to Brittany, because there were a few of those Santana needed a hand with, for sure. Kathy just had to stop implying Brittany was the root _cause_ of any of those issues, or that the solution was leaving her behind, because Snixx was about two seconds from coming out to lay down the law on behalf of both of them. Santana couldn’t be held responsible for that. She’d disclosed the risks upfront.

“I’m not trying to get you to leave Brittany, Santana,” Kathy eventually reassured her, “But today is all about assessing what you want to get out of these sessions, so I can help you work towards some actionable changes in your life. Clearly, your relationship with Brittany is incredibly important to you.”

“Gee thanks, John Edward.” Santana rolled her eyes, quietly relieved to have won the argument she was allegedly only having with herself in the first place.

“So, when does Brittany get here?” Kathy asked.

“Tomorrow.” Santana felt herself get smacked down with the same mix of nerves and excitement that always struck at the thought of Brittany’s impending arrival. The blonde was coming here, to live with _her._

The therapist hummed, “And when are you breaking up with Dani?”

“Today.” 

Kathy’s lips turned upward, tinged with a quietly sympathetic understanding. Santana couldn’t stand her, but she had to admit there was a strange sense comfort in unloading all of your deepest thoughts and fears onto a total stranger who was bound by oath to keep them secret unless they thought you were going to hurl yourself off a bridge (which she wasn’t). Santana could get used to this. It might even be quite handy. An open ear, with no agenda whatsoever other than looking out for you.

Who knew?

“Okay, we’re out of time today,” Kathy closed her notepad and sat forward, “I’d like to give you a little exercise to try and get you out of your comfort zone during the week. Would you be open to that?”

Santana bit back the urge to unleash the sarcastic comment that sprung up in retaliation towards Kathy’s condescending tone. She wasn’t a child; she could do her damn homework just fine. Santana fought it, because this was why she was here, to get help moving forward. Even if every second of it was brutal and terrifying, and might go full supernova in her face at any given moment without prior warning. 

She settled for as nonchalant a response as she could muster, in spite of the gut-wrenching nerves that had overtaken her the minute Kathy mentioned comfort zones. 

“Depends what it is, I guess.”

* * *

Brittany and the Dean were having the world’s longest stare-off. 

Seriously, it had been thirty five and a half minutes of absolute silence. 

She wasn’t even sure the man had blinked yet. 

“This is ridiculous Theo, just let her go.” Professor Donaldson groaned. Brittany had honestly forgotten she was there. Why had she waited so long to say something? 

Weird. 

The Dean spun around to look at his colleague, snapping at her like one of those turtles Brittany had seen on Youtube, “I will not be the man responsible for letting the most gifted mind in a generation walk out of that door, Jemima. The academic community would shun me!” 

“You don’t really have a say though, do you?” Brittany yawned, “Because of the sadness clause.” 

She could feel the Dean simmering with rage. They all knew she’d won. Brittany was only sticking around to be polite, hoping to resolve this amicably. She didn’t like to be seen as a quitter, even when she was quitting something. But the longer they went on, the less sure she was of them ever parting ways on good terms. 

“I have an idea,” Professor Donaldson leant against the desk, “One that may be beneficial to both parties, if we can reach an agreement.” 

Both Brittany and the Dean looked over to the woman in confusion, glancing warily back at each other. They responded in perfect unison.

“I’m listening.” 

As Professor Donaldson rattled off her insane proposal, Brittany felt her general resistance towards the institution that had made her miserable for months dwindling further and further until it became little more than a speck on one of the Dean’s dusty old books. Her mind, while powered mostly by a boundless imagination and motifs from iconic film and television soundtracks, was fundamentally still one of logic and reason. If Walker and Donaldson came through on their end of the bargain, this would be way too good of an offer to pass up. Her prior plans meant nothing in comparison to this. Actually, she wasn't even sure she’d had any; beyond spending the rest of her life with Santana, obviously.

The Dean beamed proudly from behind his desk, clearly sensing Professor Donaldson had won Brittany over just as quickly as she’d managed to convince him. The woman wrapped her pitch, and both academics turned to the blonde; eagerly awaiting a response.

“Well,” Professor Donaldson probed, “What do you think?”

Brittany could feel the pair watching her carefully. Professor Donaldson wiggled a hopeful eyebrow in her direction, and she knew the woman was genuinely looking out for her best interests. It kind of felt like her chest was about to explode with the sheer excitement of it all, which was incredibly telling.

The blonde leant back in her chair, sucking a deep breath in despite all the microbes in the air around them right now. She swatted away the minuscule whisper in the back of her brain that worried this would become another addition to the list of missteps she’d made around Santana lately, instead holding on to the far more rational hope that the other girl would be okay with it. Besides, what good could Brittany possibly be to Santana if she wasn’t living for herself as well? 

Ultimately, the blonde genius knew in her heart that there was only one conceivable response here. Santana would understand. 

She had to.

Right?

There was a reason Santana and Brittany both lived in such constant fear.

Fear meant they had something to lose.

Brittany prayed Santana wouldn’t scare easily this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who keep leaving lovely comments on this story every week! I'm also on tumblr @amazonworrier - come chat :)


	16. Holding Hands With Your Heart to See You (Santana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany arrives in New York

When it came to sex, Santana liked to keep score.

It started off as a way to entertain herself, because sleeping with guys could be painfully boring at the best of times:

_She’d count how many minutes (or seconds) it took to get a guy off._

_She’d count how long it took them to get her off in return (if they did at all)._

_She’d count how long it was until it was finally over._

Then she came out, and the game mostly changed for the better:

_She’d count the space between a girl’s breasts, using her lips to map out the distance from peak to peak._

_She’d count how many times she could get a girl to orgasm in one night, and how many times they could return the favour._

_She’d count the minutes before she pictured Brittany in place of whatever girl she was with._

Lately though, the game hadn't been half as interesting:

_She'd count number of days it’d been since she’d last had sex._

* * *

Santana broke up with Dani.

It wasn’t half as dramatic as she thought it would be. Dani guessed what was going on before she could say anything.

Santana didn’t even get the chance to explain why, because Brittany called while they were talking. Dani heard the ringtone and put two and two together. 

The girl had been angry about being taken for a ride, but not heartbroken. They parted ways and agreed to be professional around each other at work.

It was a bit of an anticlimax, really.

* * *

The wait at the airport was terrifying. 

Santana had been pacing up and down along the arrivals gate for the last twenty minutes. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, and she’d picked out a simple black sun dress, pairing it with a clunky red belt around the waist. She looked hot, and those around her seemed to notice it too; several pervy middle aged men had eyed her on their way out to the pickup bay. The admiration she was receiving from passersby was nothing new. Santana was used to attracting attention for her looks. This time, though, it only served to further fuel the panic that had been swirling around in her gut like a whirling dervish since they left the loft this morning. Because she was wearing a dress for the first time since-

Fuck.

Stupid Kathy and her stupid homework. 

Okay, maybe the homework wasn’t so stupid, and Santana was the dumb one for setting herself up to fail at it. All she had to do was pick one thing that would push her out of her comfort zone this week, and do it in a safe environment to see what happened. It was supposed to teach her messed up brain that all those normal things she’d been avoiding since the night at the club weren’t really that scary, so she could eventually go back to business as usual. It made sense. Santana had been willing to give it a go. 

Except, she’d totally messed it up and chosen to put it into practice by wearing a dress, on _today_ of all days, when her nervous system was already in complete disarray over Brittany’s impending arrival.

Brittany was moving to New York to be with her.

What if she screwed it all up?

“Oh my god woman,” Kurt squeaked, as Santana zoomed past him and Rachel for the umpteenth time, “Will you stop? You’re giving my anxiety anxiety.”

Rachel sipped her coffee calmly, catching Santana by the arm. The diva peered at her over the brim of the obnoxiously large sunglasses she’d elected to wear inside to avoid the paparazzi that were _bound_ to recognise her, despite Funny Girl not having actually opened yet. “Kurt’s right Santana. Brittany will be here any second. Just breathe.” 

“I haven’t heard from her all morning,” Santana hissed, “What if she doesn’t show up?” 

“She’s been _on a plane.”_ Kurt rolled his eyes, only to be shoved by Rachel. 

“If she doesn’t show up, we’ll file a missing person’s report,” Rachel gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, “Because there’d be no other possible explanation as to why she wouldn’t be here with you today.”

Maybe it was the way Rachel was looking at her, with all those warm and fuzzy feelings behind her eyes, or maybe it was the one hour of sleep and half a bagel that had been keeping her system running for the last twenty-four hours, but Santana felt her eyes welling up with tears. Kurt handed her a handkerchief without comment, and the exchange felt so routine between the two of them that Santana wondered when exactly she’d gone so soft. She took it gratefully and dabbed at her eyes. 

“Santana, look,” Rachel slapped her on the shoulder, bouncing up and down, “There she is!”

It took all the effort in the world not to shove her way through the crowd of weary travellers when Santana spun around to see Brittany S. Pierce rushing towards her with an obscene amount of luggage in tow. She vaguely registered Rachel squealing in excitement behind her, and Kurt muttering something sassy under his breath; but it was all white noise. 

Because Brittany was here.

Santana watched the blonde approach her, completely awestruck. It was as if she and Brittany were being pulled together by some sort of magnetic force; their legs carrying them both towards each other by instinct until they were only inches apart. Those around them were little more than background extras, blissfully unaware of the fact they were currently baring witness to the reunion to end all reunions.

God, had it really only been a week?

Brittany regarded her carefully, eyes shining with pride, and Santana dug her heels into the floor in a last-ditch effort to stop herself from leaping into the blonde’s arms, because she was holding a lot of luggage and it probably wasn’t practical.

“I like your dress,” Brittany winked. 

Screw practical.

Brittany caught her, and Santana assumed the loud crash that followed might’ve had something to do with all the suitcases the girl had let go of. She sighed as she felt Brittany’s face nuzzling into her hair, and nothing felt more right than the way the blonde was holding her. Santana could’ve written a thousand songs about how it felt to be there, breathing in Brittany’s scent for the first time since they’d parted ways at McKinley all those days ago, but words would never be enough.

She gripped furiously onto Brittany, knowing they both already understood. 

“Okay love birds,” Kurt cooed, popping up behind them. Rachel bounced up eagerly next to him, “We don’t have all day.”

Santana felt her girlfriend stiffen as she reluctantly lowered her back to the ground, two hands steadying her waist when she landed. To anyone else, the way Brittany greeted Rachel and Kurt wouldn’t have given much away. But the blonde’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and her shoulders were rigid. Santana frowned, filing it away for later when they were alone.

“I see you brought the Wonder Twins.” Brittany commented, a little too brashly to be kidding. 

Luckily, Kurt thought it was a joke anyway, waving her off with a laugh and a warm hug. Rachel saw through it but, to Santana’s relief, chose this moment to actually rise above something for the first time in her life. 

“As much as we’d love to stay and chat,” Rachel smiled tightly, “Kurt and I have to be going soon. We just came to grab your things.”

Santana watched Brittany’s face wrinkle in confusion. She seemed hesitant, but the pair quickly collected the bags around them and began chattering amongst themselves in preparation to leave. Brittany raised an eyebrow at her, and Santana felt self-conscious all of a sudden. This might’ve been too much too soon.

“I thought we could explore the city a bit, maybe grab lunch somewhere… So I asked HummelBerry to come be bellboys.” Santana explained, furious at the waver in her voice, “But we don't have to-”

Brittany grabbed her hand before she could finish the sentence, one arm landing on her hips and rubbing reassuring patterns into her dress. Her _dress._ Santana sucked in a breath. She could feel Kurt and Rachel pretending not to watch them both. For two NYADA students, they were both shockingly lousy actors.

“I would love to.” Brittany grinned.

“Yeah?” Santana knew she probably sounded super lame, and that Kurt and Rachel would tease her about it later, but she didn’t care. She’d been having a lot of feelings lately, so it wasn’t her fault that her brain kept short circuiting. Besides, if they ever told anyone else, she’d deny it. 

“Yeah,” Brittany leaned in, giving her a chaste kiss on the lips and making the room around Santana spin on its axis. She closed her eyes to regain her balance, absorbing the sheer gravitas of the other girl _being there,_ and heard Brittany laugh fondly.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

To anyone else, Santana and Brittany’s day out could have been considered painfully ordinary. 

To them, it was magical. 

They’d spent the rest of the morning shopping, then grabbed lunch from a hot dog stand on the side of the street because Brittany said she would never be a ‘real New Yorker’ until she’d had at least twelve hot dogs from a hot dog stand. Santana had bought her thirteen all at once, but they only made it to ten before the blonde felt too sick to go on. They agreed to buy the other two tomorrow, to seal the deal.

It was late afternoon. The pair had managed to find a secluded space underneath a tree in Central Park, eating ice cream on a scratchy picnic blanket Brittany picked up in a dollar store. Santana wanted to say this was one of the happiest days of her life, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something off with Brittany. Every so often, the blonde would drift away for a while, presumably exploring a pocket of her brilliant brain that Santana didn’t have the coordinates for yet. It was unsettling, but she tried not to let the fear get to her. 

“Are you going to let me in on the secret?” Santana had intended for it to come off as playful, but her voice betrayed her.

Brittany was licking away a bit of melted ice-cream as it trickled down her hand, and Santana felt herself heat up embarrassingly fast as she watched the way the blonde’s tongue moved. She tilted her head at Santana curiously, “What do you mean?” 

“You don’t have to pretend,” Santana felt her resolve dwindling now that she’d actually broached the subject, but it was too late to back out. She shifted closer on the blanket, nudging Brittany’s shoulder gently and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her girlfriend’s ear, “I know something’s up.” 

Brittany softened at her touch, lips turned downward in a sad kind of resignation that was heart-achingly reminiscent of all those times before, when Brittany had been about to reject her in one way or another. Outside the lockers, when she chose Artie; in the auditorium, when she chose Sam… 

This couldn’t be good.

“Okay, seriously Britt,” Santana cleared her throat, “You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry,” Brittany sighed, “This day’s just been so perfect. I didn’t want to ruin it.” 

“What could you possibly say that would ruin it?” 

The question sat in the air for a beat too long. Santana’s instincts were screaming at her to run away, but she forced herself to stay put and wait for an explanation. No more running. She’d promised. 

Brittany swallowed, interlacing her fingers together with Santana’s. Blue eyes locked with brown, and Santana felt the air catch in her throat under the crippling weight of Brittany’s gaze. She reminded herself to breathe, bracing for whatever was about to come next.

“I didn’t technically end up leaving MIT this week,” Brittany confessed. 

Santana’s face fell, and her hand slipped out of Brittany’s as if someone had just poured hot water on both of them.

“What? Why?” she stuttered, “You hate it there. We-”

“They offered me another deal,” Brittany explained, “One I couldn’t turn down.”

Santana frowned in confusion. They’d come up with a foolproof plan to get Brittany out of MIT before she even enrolled there, but now it seemed that had fallen at the last hurdle,“What about the sadness clause?”

"It worked,” Brittany nodded, “But then they said they'd let me study dance, as long as I keep doing math as well. It’ll be 50/50.”

Dance. That was good news. Santana recalled the last time they’d tried long-distance. Her stomach unravelled at the thought of them potentially putting each other through all that pain again, but what was the alternative? Losing Brittany completely? 

“Okay,” Santana forced a smile, “Well if that’s what you want, we’ll make it work.”

Brittany paused, folding her face into that confused scrunchy expression Santana always found so adorable. “Wait, you’re not mad?” 

It hurt a little, to think that Brittany thought she could ever be mad at her for pursuing something she loved, but Santana figured she probably deserved that. She hadn’t exactly been acting rational lately.

“I’m slightly confused about why you brought so much luggage for a visit,” Santana fidgeted with the hem of her dress to distract herself from the twinge of disappointment she felt at the thought of Brittany leaving again, “But I’m happy for you.”

Brittany chucked, kneeling on the blanket and taking both of Santana’s hands in hers. 

“I’m not _staying_ at MIT, Santana,” the blonde clarified, “They’re transferring me to NYU. One of my professors has a contact in the math department there. I’ll live on campus and they’re gonna do a collaborative study on my brain or something. NYU has an amazing dance program.”

Santana’s jaw dropped. Her mind was whirring so fast she barely took anything in other than the fact that Brittany _would_ be moving to New York to dance and do experiments. In New York. With Santana. Dancing. In New York. 

“But it’s the middle of the semester,” she focused on what her brain could process, “How did NYU even let you in?”

Brittany folded her arms defensively, “I’m a genius. Everyone wants me.” 

Yeah, that made sense. 

Santana went quiet, fully aware the blonde was anxiously awaiting a reaction, but not knowing what the appropriate response might be. Brittany got to study dance, in the city where Santana lived, meaning they could still be together. But she was acting like she’d just announced MIT were sending her on a decade long expedition to the North Pole or something. Why did she think this would be something that ruined their day?

When Brittany shook her head and stood up from the picnic blanket, Santana realised she’d taken too long. She pushed herself off the ground to meet the other girl, smoothing her dress out. 

“Britt, wait,” Santana caught the other girl by the arm before she could move away, urging her around so they were looking at each other again.

It was only when the blonde stepped back that Santana realised she’d drastically overestimated the amount of space they had between them. As she adjusted her grip, Brittany’s bicep pulsed underneath her fingertips, and Santana suddenly felt overcome by another rush of heat. 

She _seriously_ needed to get laid. 

“I’m sorry if I didn’t react the way you wanted me to,” Her eyes flickered up towards Brittany, who was regarding her warily, “But… what part of all this am I supposed to have a problem with?” 

“I don’t know, Santana,” Brittany huffed, panic rising in her voice, “Maybe the part where I won’t be living with you?” 

Oh. 

She’d totally missed that bit. 

Santana’s heart sank as she watched Brittany avert her gaze, kicking at the blanket between her feet. She wasn’t sure what it meant for them, that Brittany thought something as trivial as this could knock them off course so easily. She'd really done a number on them both lately, hadn't she?

Recalling Kathy’s comment about the logistics of everyone living in the loft together, Santana briefly wondered if this might actually be a blessing in disguise. It would give them time to work everything out, without the added pressure of being cooped up in a musty, wall-less garbage fire of an apartment that barely had enough room for the two headstrong drama queens and one impeccably well-balanced human being who lived there already. She and Brittany had never lived together before anyway. No sense in rushing into things before they were ready.

All that aside, there was a much bigger issue at play here. One, that Santana felt the immediate need to rectify.

“Britt,” she tugged insistently at the other girl’s hand until Brittany let herself be dragged back in, “It’s okay to follow your dreams too, you know.” 

It had been intentional, to echo Brittany’s own words back to her at a time like this. She saw her girlfriend’s eyes light up, clearly recalling that moment in the auditorium when she’d pushed Santana to go to New York. Back then, Santana had been ready to take Sue’s job offer to coach the Cheerios, and give up everything to be near Brittany, even if it meant sacrificing the life she really wanted. In so few words, Brittany had refused to let her do that. She hadn’t been willing to be the thing that kept Santana from shining the way she deserved to. It was about time she returned the favour.

“Thank you.” Brittany whispered, the faintest tinge of pink rising into her cheeks.

Santana swallowed, trying not to dwell on how insecure she must’ve made Brittany feel about their relationship for her to think she had to put her own needs aside like that. She owed the girl so many apologies for how she’d acted lately that she wasn’t sure where to begin. 

“I’m sorry you felt like you had to hold yourself back for me.” 

“Don't be.”

Santana squeezed Brittany’s hand, weaving their fingers together, and watched as a visible wave of relief washed through the blonde. They stood in Central Park, grinning at each other like two lovestruck teenagers. 

That wasn’t exactly far from the truth. 

“So, when do you move into your dorm?” Santana asked.

Brittany shrugged. “Not until Monday.” 

“Well, I hope there’s enough room in there for two,” Santana beamed, “Because I’m going to be visiting you a lot, _Miss NYU_.” 

Brittany laughed, and then they were leaning in until their lips were almost touching. Santana tilted her head up to close the gap, sighing as Brittany’s lips met hers in a tender kiss. She wrapped her arms around Brittany’s shoulders, tracing her tongue against the blonde’s lip until she felt the other girl’s mouth granting entrance and strong hands grasping at her hips. It was all she could do not to collapse, as their tongues met and their bodies connected in that special dance they’d never quite managed to recreate with anyone else.

The kiss was heating up alarmingly fast. Brittany gripped her waist, fingers splaying across the back of her dress, and Santana found herself contemplating what the odds would be of them getting caught by someone if they started having sex on a picnic blanket in the middle of Central Park. 

High, apparently.

“Get a room!” It was scathing; yelled by a teenage boy as he rode by on his bicycle. Santana jumped back, suddenly overtaken by panic because people were everywhere, and she’d forgotten that. People were watching. They were watching _them._ Together. It wasn’t until Brittany started shaking her by the shoulders that Santana realised she’d almost stopped breathing entirely. 

“Santana,” Brittany reassured her, “It’s okay.” 

Santana eventually found it within herself to nod at the other girl. She cleared her throat, avoiding eye contact in favour of frantically collecting their belongings and folding up the picnic blanket.

“We should go.”

* * *

They were sitting on the couch in the loft watching _Friends._ Santana could practically hear Quinn rattling off another one of her condescending lectures about avoidance mechanisms all the way from New Haven. She focused on the television, doing her best to act like she hadn’t noticed Brittany’s blue orbs fixated on her the whole time, in fear she might fold under the weight of them. Rachel and Kurt weren’t home, but Santana found herself wishing they were, if for no reason other than to ease the stifling tension that had permeated the air around them both. 

It’d been a few hours since the park, and Santana silently kicked herself for shutting down the minute that stupid boy had ridden past on his bike. It was completely unfair, and she fought against it with every ounce of energy she could muster, but the thought of even looking at Brittany right now made her feel sick to her stomach. That _uneasiness_ was there again, and she couldn’t shake it. Santana felt ashamed.

She’d never been so angry at herself before.

Clutching a pillow into her chest, Santana bounced a finger nervously against the fabric. She and Brittany were barely touching, but even the feel of their arms brushing up near each other every so often was making Santana want to cry out loud, for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she did; whether it would manifest as a sob, an enraged scream, or maybe something else entirely. All she knew was that whatever came out would hurt, and she did everything she could to never have to experience the pain of feeling it. 

They made it through four episodes like that, in total silence, before Brittany spoke up. 

“I know what you’re doing,” she whispered. 

Santana’s breath caught in her throat. Brittany sounded so soft, so understanding, that Santana felt like screaming even more. Because her girlfriend didn't deserve any of this, and Santana didn’t deserve _her._ Brittany deserved way more than to have her first day in New York be ruined over something as trivial as a school boy with a big mouth, whose comment wouldn’t have bothered Santana a few months ago. Maybe back in junior year, it would’ve been a different story, but she’d done the work. _They’d_ done the work, and she’d found the strength to be confident in herself a long time ago. She had just as much right as anyone else to be happy. It wasn’t fair, on either of them, to be retreating back into her shell now. 

But she didn’t know how to stop it.

Santana looked down at her lap, burying her face into the pillow and taking solace in the sanctuary it provided. It took another few minutes before she managed a feeble, barely there response, mumbled so far into the pillow she wasn’t sure it would even be heard. 

“I don’t.” 

Santana folded back into the couch cushions, closing her eyes and willing them to swallow her whole. Then, a warm hand was closing gently on top of her own as Brittany pried her fingers apart and removed the cushion. She tossed it aside, wordlessly interlacing their hands together so that she could turn Santana’s body in to face her own. 

“C’mere,” the blonde sighed.

Then all Santana could do was watch, as Brittany moved in impossibly close until their knees were touching. Sliding her hands up to close around Santana’s wrists, Brittany tugged her forward until she was in her lap. Santana snaked her legs either side of Brittany’s waist, looping her arms around the other girl’s neck. Their faces were mere inches apart, and the pure reverence with which Brittany was looking at her made Santana want to unravel completely.

She’d heard the term ‘gay panic’ get tossed around a lot over the years, but never quite understood it until moments like these where Brittany rendered her completely and utterly useless. The blonde lifted her hand to her cheek, cupping it gently and tracing the length of her jaw with her thumb. Santana closed her eyes, leaning into the other girl’s touch until she felt the hand slip away; the world growing infinitely colder without it there. 

The feeling had been fleeting though, because then two arms were gliding up her back and enclosing her in an embrace so warm it could’ve replaced the sun on the brightest of summer days. Santana sighed, allowing herself to fall into the hug completely. She buried her head into the nook between Brittany’s neck and shoulder, lips pressing into the skin she found there. Brittany was holding her with so much care that Santana had no choice other than to feel totally safe in her arms. They sat, completely absorbed in each other, and it was as if time itself stood still. Santana could’ve stayed there forever. 

She should’ve known better than to think the universe would allow that.

“ _You won’t admit you love me, and so how am I ever to know?_ ” a female voice filtered through from the hallway outside, belting out a melody so obnoxiously it could’ve only belonged to one person. 

_“You always tell me. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps,_ ” the voice continued, as the roller door creaked on it’s hinges to reveal none other than Rachel Berry in all her irritating glory, headphones in as she performed to herself and anyone else who might happen to have the privilege of overhearing, “ _If you can’t make your mind up, we’ll never get started. And I don’t wanna wind up, being parted, broken-hearted._ ” 

Brittany groaned into her shoulder blade, and Santana bit down on her own lip to hold back the rage she wanted to unleash on her roommate for her outrageously poor timing. A roommate, who was still so caught up in her own performance she hadn’t even _noticed_ them yet. 

“ _So if you really love me, say yes,_ ” Rachel clanked around in the kitchen, rifling through a drawer looking for who-knows-what, “ _But if you don’t dear, confess_.” 

Despite the rude interruption, Brittany showed no sign of letting go. In fact, Santana almost felt like she’d pulled her in even closer, if that was possible. She rolled her eyes, wondering if Berry would ever stop, and tucked her head into Brittany’s neck in the hope that doing so would make the awful noise go away somehow. 

“ _And please don’t tell me_ , _perhaps, perhaps, perhaps,_ ” Berry continued. Her back was turned to both of them as she fired up the stove and threw a pan down on top of it, jiggling her hips embarrassingly out of time with the song she was singing, “ _Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps._ ”

“Make it stop,” Brittany grumbled into Santana’s skin, and she couldn’t help but laugh a little at how petulant the blonde sounded. 

“ _If you can’t make your mind up, we’ll never get started,_ ” Rachel pushed her pelvis up against the bench, gyrating against it in a way that wasn’t remotely as attractive as she probably thought it was. “ _And I don’t wanna wind up, being parted, broken-hearted. So if you really love me, say yes.”_

Keeping one arm firmly on Brittany, Santana reached sideways to find the pillow they’d discarded earlier. 

“ _But if you don’t dear, confess, and please don’t tell me.”_

She launched it across the room with scarily accurate precision, watching with great satisfaction as it flew at full speed towards the oblivious diva. 

“ _Perhaps, perhaps, perh_ -OWW.” 

The cushion smacked Rachel square in the back of the head. 

Santana curled back into Brittany, who gripped onto her tightly; both relishing in the return to absolute silence. But the moment was far too short-lived, because Rachel Berry had more to say.

“You know,” the diva huffed, removing her headphones, “There are ways to alert people to your presence that don’t involve physical violence, Santana.” 

Creaking one eye open over Brittany’s shoulder, Santana frowned at her roommate. It seemed the blonde was refusing to even turn around to join the conversation, and had instead started rubbing soothing circles into the small of Santana’s back, which she didn’t mind at all. 

“There are also several sharper objects I could’ve thrown,” Santana remarked, sighing under Brittany’s gentle caress, “Consider yourself lucky the pillow was the closest.” 

“Hmmph,” Rachel turned the stove off, abandoning the mess she had made in the kitchen and marching towards her bedroom, “I’ll make myself scarce on this occasion, but next time I’d encourage you to remember that we _all_ live here, Santana.” 

Santana winced as the curtain was yanked shut, screeching along the pole as it went. She felt Brittany’s chest shaking as she chuckled quietly into her shoulder, and couldn’t help but smile at the whole situation.

She could get used to this. 

Pulling back to face Brittany, Santana rested her head against the other girl’s cheek. She felt the blonde release a short breath against her skin, before pulling back to look at her fully. A solemn look adorned her features, and for a moment Santana found herself once again worrying irrationally about what Brittany was about to say.

“Are we definitely set on her being your new best friend?” Brittany raised an eyebrow, “I mean, Kurt’s a bit of an underdog but with the right training-”

Santana pressed a firm kiss into Brittany’s lips, stopping the thought mid-sentence. She knew, despite her playful tone, that Brittany’s words were coming from a place of jealousy over her newfound closeness with Rachel. She recalled the blonde’s attitude at the airport earlier that day; seemingly stemming from some sort of frustration that their world had been invaded, when up until now it’d only ever been the two of them allowed in.

“Britt…”

Santana realised, with some dismay, that the particular words of reassurance Brittany probably wanted to hear from her would be a lie now. She wasn't going to tell her she and Rachel weren’t close. They had been through a lot together since they lost Finn, and it was the kind of stuff that made it impossible _not_ to bond with someone; even if that someone annoyed the living hell out of her at the same time. Unfortunately for both of them, The Hobbit was making a habit out of telling anyone who would listen that Santana was her best friend. The Latina girl could see how that might bother the only other person who’d ever been good enough to claim that title.

But things change, right? _People_ change.

Besides, isn’t that exactly the notion she’d been resisting until Brittany had talked some sense into her in the auditorium last week? Santana would've been more than happy to keep banging her head against that brick wall in the hope of one day tunnelling through it to find her old self again. Brittany had been the one who insisted they embrace the change; who wanted them to be together as the people they’d become, not the people they’d left behind.

It just so happened that the latest version of Santana Lopez included an unresolved system-bug in the form of a pushy, singing dwarf that followed her around everywhere. 

Maybe the days of linked pinkies and laughter through the hallways of McKinley high were long gone. But as far as Santana was concerned, there was still only one person in the world who would ever understand her properly, in all the ways that mattered. Santana felt an aching need to remind Brittany of that before the other girl’s insecurities got the better of them both. 

Because Rachel Berry might be Santana’s best friend right now.

But Brittany S. Pierce was her _best friend,_ always and forever _._

“I love you,” Santana whispered, hoping those three simple words would convey everything she felt. Brittany’s hands instinctively tightened around her waist in response, and the blonde smiled sweetly back at her, eyes shining amid the late afternoon light. 

“ _Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps?_ ” Brittany teased, but the waver in her voice was hard to miss.

“Seriously, Britt Britt,” Santana shuffled in Brittany’s lap. She snaked a hand down to rest against her pulse-point, and felt the blonde’s heartbeat almost triple in speed at the contact. Brittany watched her, lips parted, as Santana’s hands smoothed delicately along the neckline of her shirt, palms coming to rest flat against her chest. 

She'd only meant to comfort the other girl; to reassure Brittany of her eternal, undisputed place at the top of the list of people Santana loved. But there was a distracting hunger in Brittany’s eyes that captivated her, and the blonde’s hips involuntarily canted upward to meet her own every time she moved. Santana’s breath hitched, and she felt the overwhelming urge to consume every inch of the girl before she could slip away again.

It would’ve been a crime to ignore it, really.

“I…” Santana pressed a soft kiss against Brittany’s jawline, smirking at the barely there gasp it garnered in response.

“Love…” She trailed lower, scattering slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of the blonde’s neck. Brittany’s eyes lulled into the back of her head as she fell back against the sofa in response.

“You…” Santana found that sweet spot, just beneath the ear, that she knew drove Brittany crazy, and clamped down, teeth sinking gently into skin. She chuckled quietly as Brittany’s hands clenched desperately around her hips, urging her in closer until their chests were pressed flush against each other. 

Santana ground down into the other girl’s lap, lips traversing Brittany’s jawline at an agonisingly slow pace and marking every inch of skin until she stopped just shy of her lips. Her lips hovered above Brittany’s _just_ long enough, and she bit back a laugh as her girlfriend grunted in frustration. She pulled back, catching Brittany’s hooded gaze as she traced a thumb along the blonde’s lips. Santana could feel the girl’s ragged breath tickling her fingertips. She smiled, leaning in until their lips were just shy of brushing against each other. Her final words passed from her mouth into Brittany’s like an invisible tether, binding them together.

“No _perhaps_ about it.”

They didn’t wait after that. Santana’s lips crashed into Brittany’s, then the blonde’s mouth was parting and Santana’s tongue was slipping in eagerly to entangle with hers. They kissed each other greedily, and Santana revelled in the vibration of the moan Brittany released as she traced her tongue along the roof of the blonde’s mouth. Fingernails clawed at her back as Brittany dragged one hand up to close around the nape of her neck, threading her fingers through Santana’s hair and sliding their mouths together in a string of heated kisses.

She couldn’t be entirely sure, but Santana thought she heard a growl escape Brittany as she surged forward, rolling her hips in a circular motion into Brittany’s lap. She felt her body throbbing with need when Brittany’s hips bucked up to meet hers in a steady rhythm. It had been too long, and it was as if every inch of her body wanted desperately to make up for lost time by feeling everything all at once. 

It was electric. 

Brittany’s legs splayed open, and Santana used the opportunity to adjust their position, pressing a knee in against the other girl’s core as she straddled one of her thighs. The moan elicited from Brittany’s mouth as their bodies met was devastatingly melodic, and Santana wanted to play it on loop forever. She rocked into the blonde, sighing into the other girl’s mouth as their kisses devolved into a messy, open mouthed dance of tongue and teeth. Santana felt her body arch as Brittany’s hands toyed with the hem of her dress, tugging her in so closely she was sure the blonde could feel her wetness seeping through the few thin pieces of clothing that separated them. 

Teeth grazed against her jawline, and Santana felt her hips buck as a cautious finger skimmed slowly under her dress along her inner thigh, teasing at the fabric of her thong but waiting for express permission to move in closer. It warmed her heart that Brittany was being so careful, but she needed the other girl _there_ already. Santana shoved her hand down to meet Brittany’s, urging it deeper until she felt a finger sneak under her panties to draw slow circles around her clit. She gasped, moaning as Brittany’s other hand surged up to cup her breast. 

It didn’t make sense for that particular movement to have been what snapped Santana back to reality, but all of a sudden she felt overcome by a desperate desire to escape far, far away. Her eyes jolted open, and Brittany’s hands suddenly felt like way too much; way too soon.

She wasn’t ready. 

“Wait,” Santana’s throat was hoarse. She collapsed into Brittany’s shoulder, gently nudging her hand away from her chest to create some distance between them. Scrunching her eyes shut, she released a laboured breath; one half of her brain kicking itself for stopping them when everything felt _so_ good, and the other half crying out in sheer relief.

“Sorry,” her voice cracked, and in an instant Santana felt Brittany shifting beneath her. 

“It's okay,” Brittany removed her hand from underneath Santana’s dress, and Santana whined at the sudden loss of contact. She felt herself being twisted around, until her back was pressed up against Brittany’s chest and the other girl was cradling her in her arms. Brittany shuffled back, repositioning them both so they were propped up against one arm of the couch, and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Santana could feel Brittany’s chest heaving behind her. Clearly, the blonde was struggling to cool off just as much as she was. Santana realised what she’d just done, what she’d just _stopped,_ and a hollow, mirthless laugh escaped her.

“What?” Brittany nudged her gently. 

“Nothing, I’m just,” Santana shook her head in disbelief, peeking over her shoulder to look at her girlfriend, “ _So_ turned on right now.”

“I don’t blame you,” Brittany smirked, “I’m really hot.”

Burying her head into Brittany’s chest to hide the blush that was creeping into her cheeks, Santana giggled into the other girl’s body. She felt Brittany chuckling fondly with her, and closed her eyes at the sensation of Brittany’s cheek brushing up softly against her forehead. Laughing helped, because if she didn’t laugh, Santana thought she might cry over how frustrated she over the thought of _wanting_ something so much but needing to be as far away from it as possible, at the same time.

Fucking hell.

Brittany traced soothing circles along the inside of her forearm with her thumb, and it was enough to settle Santana’s thoughts, if only for a little while. She sighed, focus drifting back towards the television, but even Ross seemed to be getting more action than her. That hardly seemed fair. She pouted like a child who’d just been put in the time-out corner.

“I haven’t had sex in like, ninety-five days,” Santana grumbled. 

It was ridiculous. Santana Lopez, of _all people_ , hadn’t had an orgasm since the morning when Quinn had taken pity on her and effectively acted as a warm body for Santana to ride until she fell apart. It wasn’t fair. Santana loved sex. She especially loved having sex with Brittany. This was the longest she’d ever gone without both of those things since she’d lost her virginity, and it felt like she was going to explode. 

More infuriating, though, was the fact that _she_ was the only thing standing in the way. 

In hindsight, Santana wondered if, had she not been caught up in her own thoughts, she might’ve noticed how Brittany’s hand stilled on her arm at the comment. She nuzzled her head into Brittany’s chest and closed her eyes contentedly; completely oblivious to the way the blonde had fallen eerily silent behind her.

Because Santana wasn’t the only one in their relationship who liked to count.

And something didn’t add up. 

“You mean ninety-six, right?”


	17. There is a Sound for Everything You Do (Brittany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany learns to share.

When Brittany was growing up, her family played Jenga together every Saturday night.

The tower fell down no matter what.

Brittany’s favourite part of the game was rebuilding it.

But her Mom would stack the blocks the wrong way around, and her Dad was always losing pieces. So, Brittany decided it was easier to rebuild the tower on her own.

If you want a job done right, you do it yourself.

********

“You mean ninety six, right?” 

Santana’s body tensed. Her girlfriend turned around, mouth hung open like it wasn’t sure what movements to make anymore, and it soon became clear to Brittany she was waiting for an answer that'd never come.

Sometimes, no response was a response.

Then the loft door slid open and Kurt waddled in with a bundle of sheet music clasped to his chest. The moment was gone. 

Kurt, who looked decidedly mortified to see them sitting there, was flanked by two people Brittany didn’t recognise. On his left was a cheery, tanned guy who looked like David Bowie’s long lost son. On his right was Demi Lovato. Well, not quite; but scarily close.

“Dani,” Santana cleared her throat, shooting up from the couch, “What are you doing here?”

Oh.

Even their names were close.

For the first time, Brittany noticed how messy Santana’s ponytail was from their make-out session earlier on. Coupled with the missing buttons on Brittany’s shirt, and discarded couch cushions, the blonde realised it was probably fairly obvious to the trio what they’d almost walked in on. It was kind of ironic, really, given that what they’d actually walked in on was a conversation about _not having_ sex. 

From the way Dani scowled at them both, Brittany figured now wasn’t the best time to clear that up.

“Band rehearsal,” Dani answered curtly, “Kurt seemed to think no one would be home.”

Santana shot daggers towards Kurt, who was shrinking into his sheet music, “He got that wrong.”

It was awkward. No one really knew what to say, so they all just stood there looking at each other. Dani was flitting between Brittany and Santana, switching between hurt and anger at each turn of the head. Santana was looking at the floor, the boys were looking at each other, Brittany was looking at all of them. It stayed like that for so long that Brittany found herself praying Rachel Berry would emerge from behind her curtain and save them all from themselves. Luckily, Young Bowie stepped in before it came to that. Brittany liked him. 

“Five’s a crowd. We’ll come back later,” he suggested, “Dani?”

Dani fixed Santana with one last, anguish-fuelled stare, before nodding. “Yeah.” 

As the pair of bandmates all-but fled the apartment, Kurt mouthed a sorry at Santana. It shouldn’t have surprised Brittany that her girlfriend seemed more sad than angry, but it did.

“Whatever, Kurt.” Santana mumbled, before shuffling awkwardly past Brittany to use the bathroom.

As Brittany watched her leave, she felt like a bit of an idiot. It’d never once occurred to her that Dani might actually be someone worth thinking about. Not properly, anyway. Up until now, she had always been an abstract concept. Abstract concepts were easy to ignore. Santana’s New York girlfriend: ‘Dani.’ Far away and completely forgettable; out of the picture before Brittany even got here. 

But Dani was a person. Dani was a person they hurt, who had just been standing there in the loft with a face that made it clear to everyone she’d been hurt; and now Santana was hurting over having hurt her. Their relationship, whilst over, had been real. Tangible. Brittany hadn’t been ready for it. This was the girl Santana must’ve had sex with after…

She had no right to be jealous. 

Santana and Dani had been together at the time. The only cheating that occurred between the three of them was whatever Santana and Brittany had done together in that choir room last week, and then again in the auditorium. And, probably also all those cuddles and moments and conversations they’d had about loving each other; if you counted the emotional stuff as cheating, which most people did. 

The problem was just that for the second time in little over a week, Santana had pulled away from Brittany while they were getting intimate because she wasn’t ready to take things further. That was fine. Brittany loved having sex, but she loved Santana more. If she really had to choose between the two, she would readily forgo ever having sex again as long as it meant spending the rest of her life _not having sex_ with Santana. But Santana had said 95 days when it should’ve been 96; if you could call the atrocity that had occurred at the club sex to begin with (Santana would). Brittany knew the other girl kept score meticulously when it came to sex. The number wasn’t a mistake. 

Brittany had no right to be jealous, but she was.

* * *

They avoided the topic after that. 

Brittany could tell Santana wanted to bring it up again. She could hear it in every moment of silence that passed between them during all the lunches, museum tours, movie dates and picnics they’d been on over the last few days. But honestly, Brittany wanted to pretend like it’d never happened in the first place. She would’ve gladly gone her whole life without ever knowing there had once been someone Santana felt comfortable taking that step with. Someone she felt more comfortable _being_ with that way, than her. 

Ultimately, Santana loved _her_ the most out of everyone. Brittany was certain of that. She could try to be okay with the other thing in time. They didn’t need to tease out the finer details. She’d prefer it if they didn’t, actually.

It was Monday morning and Brittany had picked up the keys to her dorm room while Santana was off talking to her new therapist. Rachel rated the woman highly; which meant a lot more to Santana than it did to Brittany, but still. It was nice to see progress. 

After a few hours, the moving van had offloaded all her stuff into the tiny two bedder on campus. It was only then that the blonde realised NYU might be a little different to MIT, particularly in that their dorms were designed for midgets who didn’t own anything.

Santana shot up from behind a stack of boxes. She’d arrived about ten minutes ago, and avoided telling Brittany anything about her second session with Kathy in favour of jumping headfirst into the unpacking. Her girlfriend held a poster in each hand: Cher on the left, Britney Spears on the right. 

“I’m not sure there’s enough wall space in this rabbit hole for both of these, babe,” she commented, “Any preference?” 

Before Brittany could respond, the door opened and Quinn walked in.

Wait, no. Not Quinn. The girl was slightly taller, and her eyes were grey. She was also dressed in a pair of loose sweatpants and green tank top that Quinn wouldn’t be caught dead in. The girl glared between Santana and Brittany.

“Which one of you is Brittany?” she waited in the doorway. 

Brittany dusted her hands against her jeans, stepping forward slightly and offering a wave, “That’d be me.”

Walmart-Quinn barely acknowledged her, instead casting a flirtatious smirk in Santana’s direction, “Shame.”

Brittany wasn’t sure what to make of her.

The girl, presumably her new roommate, skulked over to the other side of the room and started rummaging through the small dresser by the bed. She pulled out a book and made her way back towards the door, then paused to look at Brittany as if only just remembering she’d yet to introduce herself. 

“I’m Kat. Stay out of my way and we’ll get along just fine.”

Her roommate winked at Santana, before disappearing just as quickly as she came.

“What a bitch,” Santana rolled her eyes. When Brittany looked over at her girlfriend she was frowning, but her cheeks were tainted pink. 

Brittany tipped a box of clothes out onto the bed, beginning to fold and sort them into piles. She couldn’t help but test the waters. “An attractive bitch.” 

The blonde pretended not to notice as Santana swallowed uncomfortably, making her way out from behind the boxes with both posters still firmly in her grasp.

“Don’t tell me I have to worry about that old college stereotype coming true,” Santana deflected, throwing her arms up in jest, “Oh my god, they were roommates!”

Brittany shook her head, “She’s more your type than mine.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Santana bristled. 

Okay, Brittany was being unfair. Childish, even. Whatever. The Dani sex thing was still bothering her even if it wasn’t allowed to. And, Santana did have a thing for blondes.

“Nothing. She just seemed a lot more into you than me, is all.” Brittany folded a pair of jeans, adding them to the pile.

“Well, too bad I have already have a girlfriend,” Santana folded her arms. The irritation in her voice was hard to miss, but the poorly-concealed fear even harder, “Unless I missed a break up somewhere over the last couple of hours?”

At that, Brittany realised she’d gone too far. She turned to face Santana fully, watching as the raven-haired girl shrunk under her gaze. God, that so wasn’t cool. Santana hadn’t done anything wrong. She cleared her throat to apologise-

“Look, I know the other day is still bothering you,” Santana cut her off before she started, “Can we please just talk about it?”

“You’re not ready to go there with me yet. It’s okay,” Brittany assured her, and she meant it. Because it was true, “You don’t have to explain.”

Santana shook her head in frustration, “Yes I do,” then paused, unsure. Her voice cracked, “I want to.” 

Brittany looked up to find a pair of watery brown eyes pleading with her to listen. This was new. This… offering of information, of vulnerability, was something Santana had been struggling with since the night at the club. There was something so innately beautiful about getting to see it again. It made Brittany’s insides glow.

“I’m listening.”

Santana’s shoulders sagged in relief, but then she faltered as if she hadn’t expected to make it this far.

“Look,” she tried eventually, “I don’t know why I can’t-” 

Her girlfriend trailed off, eyes tracing the curves of Brittany’s body with heated intent. She ran a hand through her hair, sighing.

“You don’t get how it feels to have this _feeling_ inside of you Britt,” Santana confessed. It was the most honest, raw admission Brittany had seen from her in a while, which was saying something, given all they’d been through. “It’s like I can’t get clean. Every time you touch me I just-”

When Santana started pacing up and down the room, Brittany had simply watched, unsure how or if she was supposed to respond.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Santana continued, and Brittany realised they were now directly addressing the incident from 95 days ago. Santana’s entire body tensed as she spoke, her voice catching in her throat, “It was after the hospital. I couldn’t sleep and Quinn was there, and I was in shock.”

At some point, Santana had flopped down on top of the unfolded clothes pile on Brittany’s bed. She shifted another pile of clothes, and sat down next to her. Her girlfriend dropped her head into her hands, resting for a beat, before looking up at the wall in front of them, “I just needed him to _not_ be the last person who ever got to have me that way. That’s all it was.” 

It saddened Brittany to hear Santana phrasing it like that: ‘ _Ever.’_

Brittany overlooked the Quinn revelation, because she wasn’t interested in beating a dead horse. She couldn’t be jealous anyway, because she was too busy being sad that Santana had lost hope so soon. It had only been a few months. They had their whole lives to recover from this. Looking at how far Santana had come in the last week alone, Brittany was certain they’d get there. If that was what Santana wanted, it’d happen. 

“Quinn,” Brittany rolled the name around on her tongue in contemplation, “Why are we still pretending she’s straight?”

“Because _she_ is.”

That made sense. Brittany and Santana were the last two people who would ever force someone out of the closet. They knew better than that. The pair fell into a comfortable silence, and Brittany could’ve sworn she felt the bed lift as the weight of the last few days finally unburdened itself from her shoulders. Beside her, Santana was fidgeting nervously with the rolled up posters in her lap.

“Quinn won’t be the last,” Brittany nudged the girl gently with her shoulder.

Then Santana turned to her with the most gorgeously timid smile she had ever seen, and Brittany realised she probably should’ve let her explain sooner. 

“Anyway,” Santana held the posters up, one in each hand, for careful examination, “Cher or Britney?”

Brittany resumed folding, nodding towards the head of her bed, “Cher on the wall, Britney on the roof.”

“Genius.”

* * *

Over the next month, Brittany and Santana settled into a routine. The blonde danced every other day, then divided the rest of her time between the math lab and the meth lab, which is what she’d started calling the loft (much to Rachel’s chagrin). Santana was still working at the diner and shadowing Rachel on Funny Girl, so her schedule was packed full. They made time to see each other wherever possible. Brittany was nearly always at the loft instead of her dorm room, both because it was a nicer space, and because it was easier to bump into Santana there.

For the first time in weeks, Brittany didn’t want to go to the meth lab after class. While she was slowly learning to tolerate having daily encounters with Rachel Berry again, today was bound to be different. Today, Brittany actually wasn’t sure she’d make it through lunch without wanting to throw Rachel down the fire escape. At the same time, she knew she _had_ to go to the loft, because Santana would likely be a little on edge right now too. It was only natural.

Tonight was the opening night of Funny Girl. 

Rachel had become gradually more insufferable over the last few weeks; whining constantly about the intense scrutiny she would be under as the first lead performer in Funny Girl since Barbra herself. She and Santana never seemed to stop rehearsing; and when they weren’t rehearsing, they were preparing for rehearsals. It was intense. Even Rachel was getting tired of it, and she’d been dreaming of this day since before she could see past the end of her nose (age 5, approx.). The diva was making a habit out of popping up at random intervals and drawing all conversation into a downward spiral about how she wasn’t good enough; usually interrupting a more important moment between Brittany and Santana in the process. Brittany had started calling her the Filibuster.

When she wasn’t managing Rachel’s mental breakdowns, Santana was following the broadway starlet everywhere, so she could step in immediately and take her place if something went wrong during rehearsals. Brittany could tell the stress was getting to her girlfriend, especially because her heart wasn’t nearly as invested in the whole broadway thing as Rachel was. 

Although she would never burden Santana with it, Brittany would’ve been lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit concerned. Starring in a Broadway musical, even as an understudy, was a lot of pressure to put on anyone; let alone someone who had another job and a tonne of emotional stuff to work out at the same time. Santana could act, dance and sing in her sleep, but she’d hardly been getting any of that lately either.

Brittany couldn’t help but worry.

She arrived at the meth lab just before lunch time, and found herself in a living room stuffed with familiar faces. Tina, Blaine, Sam and Artie beamed at her from behind all the flowers and gift baskets. She threw her coat down near the door, and her friends rushed in for the usual round of ‘hello’ hugs. Brittany scanned the loft for the people who _actually_ lived there, but came up empty. 

“Kurt’s on the phone doing damage control with Rachel’s Dads,” Blaine informed her, tilting his head discretely towards the bedroom curtain before lowering his voice to a whisper, “Pre-show jitters.”

“She’s refusing to get out of bed.” Tina rolled her eyes

“Well,” Artie glared, “You didn’t exactly help with that, did you Tina?” 

“How was I supposed to know Barbra dropped the other A in ’57, Artie? Who knows that?”

“Rachel does.”

It surprised Brittany how routine it still felt to zone out while her former co-New Directions bickered like teenagers. It was as if nothing had changed, even though they’d never been further from that choir room (both physically, and in life) than they were at this very moment. 

“Where’s Santana?” Brittany asked, when she eventually realised the group had no intention of providing the whereabouts of the one person she actually cared about.

“I was _meant_ to be at the theatre already, with you,” the voice trickled in from behind her, before any of the others could get a word in, “But here we both are.”

Santana waltzed through the front door, raising a curious eyebrow in Brittany’s general direction. It was only then that the blonde realised she’d forgotten they’d planned to meet at the theatre instead today, because it’d be easier than having to do a mad dash to the show in bad traffic later this afternoon. In her defence, they’d changed their minds about where to meet like eight times on the phone last night.

“Here we are,” Brittany shrugged sheepishly.

It’s not like it mattered now anyway; they were all here. Santana didn’t seem bothered by it, but Brittany mouthed a silent apology anyway. Santana shrugged her coat off, leaning in to give Brittany a quick peck on the cheek. 

“It’s all good, babe,” she ran her hand down Brittany’s arm until their fingers found each other, weaving together instinctively. It was only then that she turned to acknowledge the rest of the group with a barely there nod, “What’s life without a little unnecessary drama from Berry anyway?” 

“Pleasant?” Brittany suggested. It earned her a light chuckle from the room and another peck, this time on the lips, from Santana.

The blonde could tell from the way her girlfriend’s lips trembled against hers that coming back here had been about more than just being a good friend to Rachel Berry. Because Santana was Rachel’s understudy. If Rachel didn’t show up, then suddenly this day was about to become a lot more stressful, which was the kind of pressure her girlfriend wasn’t wholly prepared for. Not on opening night, at least. 

Brittany watched carefully as Santana made her way towards the bedroom. To the casual observer, she was the usual picture of perfect posture and precision. But Brittany had traced those shoulder blades with her lips countless times before; enough to know how much the girl was straining to relax them right now. Brittany had held those hands so often she could sense the tiniest fluctuations in movement between fingers, and it was painfully obvious to her how much effort Santana was exerting not to make all ten of them ball up in fists as she walked. 

Her girlfriend stopped just shy of the curtain, turning to face everyone with the kind of trademark Lopez nonchalance those outside of their immediate circle had come to view as ordinary.

“Give me four minutes.” 

It only took three and a half, before Rachel emerged emboldened and ready to take on the world.

Brittany looked to Santana, who was half-hidden behind Rachel and letting the girl have her moment of triumph. As the rest of their friends encircled Rachel in celebration, Brittany and Santana smiled knowingly at each other; basking, as they so often did, in the innate privacy of a pre-occupied room.

There was no question whose victory this really was.

* * *

Rachel Berry had crushed it. 

Not even in a bad way. Opening night was a smash hit, and they were riding high on the buzz. 

After the show, the producer invited a few of them to dinner but Rachel had politely declined in favour of celebrating with the wider group instead. Now, they were driving in Rachel’s limo (crazy, right?) to some high-class rooftop bar downtown. 

Santana was at her side, laughing at something stupid Sam just asked, and Brittany realised how much she’d missed having all of the gang together like this. Well, not all of them. She looked over to Rachel, who was sitting opposite her watching everyone reservedly, as if counting attendees on one hand and absentees on the other. 

“Quinn couldn’t make it, then?” Brittany asked, playing with Santana’s fingers that were weaved in between her own on her lap. Her girlfriend immediately disengaged from the conversation she’d been having with the others to lean in and join theirs instead. All the while, Rachel had remained silent.

“Finals week,” Santana supplied, resting her chin in the curve of Brittany’s shoulder and shooting a reassuring wink in Rachel’s direction, “She sent flowers.”

“Peonies.” Rachel acknowledged, sadly.

The exchange between Santana and Rachel was barely there, but Brittany caught it. This had been happening a lot, since she’d arrived in New York. Rachel would say something cryptic, then Santana would grow softer in a way she’d only ever done with Brittany and Quinn before. She’d say a million words to Rachel with one look alone, and Brittany recognised it to be a connection they’d forged together through countless conversations under the cover of dark, in the bed they _still_ seemed to share.

The blonde was trying her absolute best to adjust to it, but it was hard, because this was Rachel Berry they were talking about - one of the most self centred, annoying people she had ever met - and it didn’t feel like she deserved to have Santana that way. Brittany couldn’t find it within her to be threatened too much though, because Santana would always give her the full story later when Rachel wasn’t around. It was pretty much always about Finn, or lately, Quinn. 

Finn made sense, because grief was a complex issue and it really hadn’t been that long since they’d lost him. Quinn? Not so much, but Santana didn’t seem to have a handle on that whole thing yet either. If she did, Brittany knew her girlfriend would tell her. She was pretty sure Rachel knew that too. 

Brittany just didn’t like to think about what else Rachel knew.

* * *

The club was loud.

So loud, that Brittany could barely hear Santana even though her girlfriend was draped over her lap speaking directly into her ear. The couple were tucked away in the corner of the VIP booth, while the rest of their friends were on the dance floor. They’d been drinking for about an hour, and both were decidedly tipsy. Brittany was fighting a constant battle with her hands to make sure they didn’t start shamelessly groping the other girl, because she was still sober enough to be sure that wouldn’t end well for them. Mostly, she was just ecstatic to be holding Santana like this in public at all. It made her feel alive again.

“I’m so proud of you.” 

It slipped out, but oh well. It was true.

Santana pulled back until their faces were a few inches apart; far enough for her to look at Brittany properly. A curious smile formed against her lips, and she twirled a lock of blonde hair around one finger.

“Why?” Santana asked.

It was a silly question, because they both understood exactly what Brittany had meant. Santana had come so far these past few weeks, even in spite of the incredible pressure she was under. She’d been going to bi-weekly sessions with Kathy, and every time she came home she was just that little bit lighter, and a little less lost. 

It wasn’t a magic happy pill. Sometimes, Santana came out crying, or she would fall into a funk for a few days that was near-impossible to pull her out of. But it was there in the way she carried herself; the way she let Brittany hold her in public like this, and the way she let herself start to enjoy it again. It was there in the way she laughed and joked with others like she used to; or the way she wore dresses, as if she’d never stopped. Kathy sounded great, but Brittany had always believed that ultimately the most important person in Santana’s support system was Santana herself, and she’d be getting nowhere without her.

That’s why Brittany was so, so proud of her.

Santana knew it too, but from the way she smirked shyly at Brittany, the blonde could tell she was waiting for the compliment anyway. Brittany played along, because she was a little drunk and it never hurt to praise someone; especially someone she loved this much. Her arms came up to gently tickle the other girl’s waist. Santana giggled at the contact, wriggling in her lap.

“You know why,” Brittany grinned. 

The blonde reached up, planting a lingering kiss on Santana’s lips before pulling back in time to watch the way her girlfriend’s eyes sleepily drifted shut at the contact. It was one of Brittany’s many favourite things about kissing Santana; the way she physically absorbed the feeling afterward, and held onto it for a while like it was some sort of precious commodity she wouldn’t get to taste again. God, Brittany was so unbelievably in love with this girl.

So in love, that the thought of being anywhere else, with anyone else, wasn’t a real possibility anymore. Brittany S. Pierce was going to marry Santana Lopez and run off into the sunset with her, and they’d live happily ever after with their seventeen cats, two kids and one bi-corn. Santana was going to be a star and Brittany was going to dance. They’d hyphenate their last names in alphabetical order, and everything would be perfect even when it wasn’t, because they’d be imperfect together. Come what may.

That wasn’t even the alcohol talking. 

Santana reached behind them, grabbing Brittany’s drink and taking a sip. She brought it between them to meet Brittany’s lips, quirking an eyebrow in offering. The blonde didn’t take her eyes off Santana as she sucked on the straw, delighting in the way the other girl’s expression darkened. She took the glass from Santana’s hand and put it back on the table without breaking eye contact. 

“S'not enough,” Santana whined, and Brittany could tell purely from the way she pouted that the other girl was edging towards weepy drunk. The blonde realised she might be drunk now as well, because it took her a second to remember what they’d been talking about. Santana hung her head slightly, lip wobbling, and Brittany felt the mood shift completely, “I’m too slow.”

A head of raven hair dropped into Brittany’s shoulder with a thunk, and the blonde sighed heavily. Even in their drunken states, the meaning was hard to miss. Santana was desperate to win a ticking clock game she’d invented herself, getting so frustrated her score wasn’t perfect that she kept missing the leaps and bounds of improvement on each round. Brittany pulled her in close, and held her tightly.

“It’s not a race, baby.”

* * *

When Brittany needed to sober up fast, she’d throw a glass of iced cold water in her own face. 

It was brutal, but effective. 

Until recently, that was the only thing she thought actually worked. Santana had proven her wrong. 

The pair were absolutely wasted. They were grinding up heavily against each other on the dance floor, soaking in the music and the heat of the strobe lights. Rachel Berry was standing on a table nearby, singing into a bottle of Tequila they’d swiped from behind the bar two clubs earlier. Brittany was just glad the music was loud enough to drown her voice out so they could pretend she wasn’t there at all. Tina was somewhere, supervising. They’d lost everyone else about an hour ago.

When Santana stopped dancing in the middle of the song and flipped back into Brittany’s chest, the blonde had been so unprepared that she nearly toppled into another couple behind them. Her girlfriend scanned the room in confusion, wincing at the lights. Her eyes were glazed over; like she was there, but not there.

It wasn’t until Santana started to drift away into the crowd that Brittany regained enough sense to step in. She caught her by the arm, but the other girl didn’t look back.

“Stay with her, Kurt,” Santana mumbled, gesturing vaguely in the direction of her table-dancing roommate, “I’ll go find it.”

“Find what?” Brittany asked. She was confused, because they hadn’t seen Kurt in a while. Maybe he was behind them and she hadn’t noticed yet. The room was very blurry, after all. She turned around to double check, but unless Kurt had become either a red-haired woman or a very tall blonde guy, then he wasn’t anywhere near them.

“The phone,” Santana slurred. She staggered away, heading towards the bar, “I’ve got it, don’t worry-”

Brittany was drunk, so it took a second until her brain kicked into gear. When it finally did, her jaw dropped; blood running cold. 

Yeah, she definitely preferred the ice method.

Weaving through the crowd, the blonde managed to catch up to Santana fairly quickly now that she was on such high alert again. The difficulty was _stopping_ her. Santana Lopez was on a mission, and Brittany’s room was still spinning a fraction too much for her to be able to hold them both still. Luckily, Tina was a lot closer than she’d realised.

“You guys okay?” Tina asked, worry evident in her voice. She helped Brittany wrangle Santana, keeping the girl from wandering off.

Santana didn’t register Tina’s voice at all, and that only concerned Brittany more. Her girlfriend’s face was scrunched up as she checked the surface of every table in sight, mumbling about ‘finding it.’

“Grab Rachel, we need to go home.” Brittany struggled to form the words, but Tina nodded. She rushed away to pull the diva down from the table.

At Rachel’s name, there had been a spark behind Santana’s eyes. She looked at… no, she looked _past_ Brittany. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and the blonde felt her stomach churn at the pure aimlessness in Santana’s voice as she chattered around in circles to herself, “We can’t yet, she left her phone.”

This was bad.

Within minutes, the four of them were standing out on the street in front of the club. Brittany had almost completely sobered up and was gripping on tightly to Santana’s arm, leading her along the pavement. She still seemed totally out of it, but had stopped mumbling about phones once the fresh air hit, which was promising.

Before Brittany could think to call a cab, things had fallen apart again. Rachel was midway through one of her drunken tirades about how much she loved everyone, and Tina was busy holding her upright; and Brittany was busy holding _Santana_ upright. None of them noticed they’d turned a corner into an alleyway until they were already there, and Santana alerted them to the fact with a piercing scream. 

“What the hell?” Tina jumped back at the sound, dropping Rachel on the ground in the process. The diva screeched in pain, and the two started sniping at each other.

Brittany ignored them and tried to rush Santana back out to the main street, but the hurried movements only aggravated the girl further. She tore out of Brittany’s grip, crashing into a nearby wall and sobbing face first against it whilst struggling to stay upright.

“Santana,” Brittany soothed, careful not to touch her again, “Santana. Can you hear me?”

At her name, Santana collapsed into the floor and spun around to rest her back against the wall. Her knees shifted up to protect her chest, hands holding them in tightly. She shook her head profusely, eyes glued shut. Brittany kneeled down towards her and Santana shrieked, swatting limply at the empty space in front of her.

“Please,” She sounded broken, defeated, “Don’t.” 

Brittany paused, at a loss for what to do. What _could_ she do, when Santana was this terrified of her? She raised herself back up to standing height as Rachel appeared beside her. Brittany guessed the brunette was sobering up now too, because her eyes were clouded with a concern that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. The pair watched, dumfounded, as Santana rambled out a flurry of pleas and apologies to no one in particular.

“What do we do?” Rachel stuttered

In all her online research, Brittany had read something about how certain events could trigger a dissociative state in people with PTSD, making them get caught up in whatever horrible moment damaged them in the first place. The blonde’s first instinct was to go to Santana, to hold her and shake her back into _this moment_. But if Santana was reliving the moment Brittany suspected, then it was one where she was being touched without her consent. Brittany wasn’t sure if approaching her would make it worse.

But then Santana started clawing at her own skin, and Brittany threw all logic out the window.

She lowered back down to the ground, heart breaking at the way Santana scurried back along the wall when she felt Brittany’s shadow looming over her. Brittany forced herself not to agonise over how this was all playing out in Santana’s mind at the moment. She hid from the thought that Santana might be going through the same pain as before, all over again, and that Brittany’s actions might be directly influencing it, because it was too overwhelming, and would detract from the task at hand. Brittany wanted to cry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d wanted to cry this badly. But now wasn’t the time for that.

Reaching forward to smooth out her girlfriend’s hair, Brittany latched onto the twisted hope that _he_ had never been kind enough to do something like that, and that it might snap her out of it somehow. Santana didn’t immediately recoil, so Brittany continued tracing the hand down carefully until she found the pulse point on her neck. She thumbed it gently, choking back a sob as Santana flinched under her touch.

“Count with me, Santana.” Brittany whispered, well aware Tina and Rachel were watching in confusion but not having the patience to explain. Kathy had given Santana an exercise to stop her from fidgeting by getting her to focus more on the present moment, and it had been working well for her over the last couple of weeks. It was stupid, but it was also the only thing Brittany could think to use that might help ground her in the same way now; unless they could somehow get hold of Kathy at 2-freaking-AM in the morning.

The girl in front of her didn’t register the request, and kept rambling. Brittany applied pressure to her pulse point, and repeated herself.

“Count with me, Santana. Ready?” she could feel her voice quivering, but this wasn’t about how much her heart was breaking. It was about Santana.

“1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10…” Brittany whispered, on her own. She reversed the order, keeping a steady pace, “9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”

It wasn’t working. Santana started rocking, pushing her hand away. Brittany moved to stand up, but felt herself being shoved back down by the shoulders, as Rachel Berry squatted down next to her. Rachel grabbed Brittany’s hand, and placed it back onto Santana’s pulse-point. She took Santana’s other hand in her own and held firmly.

“1… 2… 3… 4…” Rachel started. Brittany joined her in the count, “5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…” 

It wasn’t _fucking_ working. Santana was getting worse, not better. Brittany could feel tears welling up in her eyes, clouding her vision. Then, Rachel surprised her again.

_Well sometimes, I go out by myself and I look across the water_

The melody sounded so foreign coming out of Rachel’s mouth that it was jarring. Under any other circumstances, Brittany would’ve been the first to tell her it was the worst cover she'd ever heard.

_And I think of all the things what you’re doing_

_In my head I paint a picture_

It was a slower tempo than usual. Rachel was looking at Brittany to follow. The blonde wiped a tear from her eye, uncertain as to whether this would work any better than the counting. But she did it anyway.

_Since I’ve come home, well my body’s been a mess_

_And I miss your ginger hair, and the way you like to dress_

At the sound of Brittany’s singing voice, Santana’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments. Brown orbs searched the space in front of them, but they weren't seeing anything. Santana burst in to tears moments later, and it wasn’t until she felt Rachel’s hand give her knee a reassuring squeeze that Brittany realised she was sobbing too. She took a deep breath in to steel herself.

_Oh, won’t you come on over?_

_Stop making a fool out of me_

Brittany tapped the beat of the song into Santana’s pulse-point, slower and steadier than they’d ever performed it before. Tina joined in, clueless as to what was going on but wanting to help regardless.

_Why don’t you come on over, Valerie?_

After the second verse passed, Brittany had just about given up hope. Santana’s eyes were screwed shut as she sobbed, and she had been repeating a mantra to herself about ‘waiting for it to be over’ so devastating that it almost shattered Brittany into pieces.

When Rachel went quiet, Brittany knew they’d run out of lyrics. Her hands trembled against Santana’s pulse point as she tried not to start sobbing again, because this wasn’t about her. She could feel Rachel and Tina looking to her for guidance, because she was Santana’s person. She was supposed to know the way. 

All Brittany knew was that she’d let Santana down.

She had just been about to ask Tina to call an ambulance, at a complete loss for what else to do, when an unsure pair of eyes cracked open in front of them. It came in the quietest of whispers, hauntingly melodic.

_Well sometimes, I go out by myself and I look across the water_

The three girls jumped back, hurrying to contain their excitement in fear of scaring Santana away. This time, when they sang, Santana whispered along with them; each of her words intoned with a question at the end of it. 

_And I think of all the things what you’re doing_

_In my head I paint a picture_

It was surer this time. Rachel and Tina were praising her with quiet affirmations.

_Since I’ve come home, well my body’s been a mess_

A hand ghosted over Brittany’s against her pulse point, and the blonde involuntarily let out a soft cry. Tentative brown eyes locked with blue, and the hand squeezed her own; as if checking it was real.

“It’s okay, honey,” Brittany reassured her, leaning in to touch their foreheads together. Because, this part? This, she knew how to do. “I’m here.”

_And I miss your ginger hair, and the way you like to dress_

_Oh, won’t you come on over?_

Santana’s eyes watered. She gasped, breathing Brittany’s scent deep into her lungs, and pulled her other hand away from Rachel’s to meet the one already weaved together with Brittany’s at her neck. The blonde felt the other girl clutching onto her so tightly she was sure the skin might be pierced, but she didn't care. All that mattered was getting Santana to feel safe again. 

Tina and Rachel faded away into background noise, but Brittany knew they were still singing; supporting them on the home stretch. 

_Stop making a fool out of me_

Brittany closed her eyes, rocking both of their heads together with the rhythm of the words, taking comfort in the way Santana’s heartbeat was gradually slowing back down in time with it. Her girlfriend’s voice grew stronger with every word, until one unmistakable moment where there wasn’t any doubt left in it at all.

_Why don’t you come on over, Valerie?_

* * *

They’d managed to get home pretty quickly after that.

Tina was passed out on the couch. Rachel had explained most of what happened to her in the car, but it turned out she already knew a lot more than they thought. Apparently, Santana had been the one secretly helping Tina and Mercedes keep the notorious interstate New Directions gossip train alive until a few months ago, when New York suspiciously dropped off the map. Santana avoided Tina’s calls for a week, and that combined with a flimsy lie from Rachel about cancelling her big night out because of a head cold, had been enough for Tina to start paying attention to whatever clues came her way. They’d asked her to keep it quiet out of respect to Santana’s privacy, and that was the end of that. 

Even Tina Cohen-Chang knew when to keep a secret.

Santana fell asleep the minute her head hit the backseat of the cab. Brittany wanted to get her showered and into a fresh change of clothes, but neither she or Rachel had been able to keep the other girl awake long enough to make it happen. They settled for replacing her dress with a baggy t-shirt and tucking her into bed.

Brittany was in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water, when she heard Rachel shuffle in behind her.

“She asleep?” Rachel asked. 

The blonde turned around to look at the diva. It was a terrible conversation starter, really, because Rachel had helped put her to bed. Brittany took a sip of her drink and nodded politely. 

“You can take the bed,” Rachel offered, “I’ll crash in Kurt’s. Him and Blaine are still out.”

“Thanks,” Brittany walked past her. She’d almost reached the curtain before Rachel spoke again.

“She talks to me as well, you know.”

It was barely there. A loaded claim tossed out into the emptiness of the loft, ripe for the taking. Brittany spun around to discover a version of Rachel Berry she hadn’t seen before. One that stood taller than her old self, that was confident but not cocky. Challenging.

The blonde quirked an eyebrow, “Is that how you knew the song would work?”

“Educated guess,” Rachel toyed with the hem of her shirt, “Kathy calls it grounding.”

“I know she does.”

Rachel crossed the loft, until only a few feet of space was left between her and Brittany. She lowered her voice in consideration of the two people sleeping nearby.

“You broke her heart when you married Sam.”

Brittany jolted back. It had been so far from whatever she was expecting to hear that she wasn’t sure what to say now. 

Brittany assumed Santana had heard about the wedding, mostly because of her involvement in the aforementioned gossip train. But they never talked about it. The blonde hadn't brought it up, because it wasn’t worth talking about. It meant nothing. Rachel scrutinised her, and Brittany grew furious at the idea that she might actually be getting into trouble for something here.

“We thought the world was ending,” she defended it, uncomfortably.

Rachel scoffed at her. _Actually_ scoffed. “And you chose to spend the rest of your life with him?”

The question echoed through the loft.

Brittany faltered. In all truth, she hadn’t reached out to Santana because, deep down, she knew the world wasn’t ending at all. Graduation was on the horizon, and it looked like she was making it through this time. It’d been overwhelming and she clung onto the first sign of certainty she’d been able to find; a marriage proposal to a boy who was going nowhere, on the eve of the fake Mayan apocalypse. Also, not that it mattered now, but Brittany felt it worth mentioning that not once had she called Sam her soulmate or the love of her life during her wedding vows. 

Santana would understand all that, if she explained it to her. It was just that she’d never asked, so there’d never been the need to. Or so Brittany had thought. She floundered, because she wasn’t sure how to articulate any of it to someone like Rachel; to whom she didn’t actually owe an explanation in the first place. She briefly considered telling her to shove it, instead.

“It’s more complicated than that.” Brittany settled for in the end, because she was too tired to delve any deeper after the night they’d just had.

“I don’t doubt it,” Rachel hummed, “I’ll never pretend to understand the first thing about you Brittany but-” 

“Good.” Brittany retorted, mostly for the sake of it. 

“But I do understand loving Santana,” Rachel continued, overlooking the interruption, “I’d hoped it might be something we could bond over.” 

“I thought you said you weren’t into her that way.” Brittany frowned accusingly.

“Loving Santana as a _friend_ ,” Rachel clarified. 

“Yeah, well you can take your best friend cap and wear it around someone else,” Brittany ignored the way the diva’s eyes widened in disbelief, “Because I’ve got that part covered here already.”

Perhaps it was childish to lay claim to Santana like that. Actually, Brittany knew it was. But they'd just had one of the most emotionally taxing nights Brittany had ever experienced, and she wasn't in the mood to be lectured by some know-it-all dwarf who thought she had the right to pass comment on Santana just because they slept together all the time. As if that meant anything at all.  Rachel considered her carefully, and folded her arms. It looked like she was tossing up a million different dialogue combinations in her head, and Brittany assumed it would be rude to walk away before she landed on one. Eventually, Rachel must've found what she was looking for, because she straightened back up and looked Brittany in the eye.

“You and Santana can’t do best-friendship without love,” Rachel had been matter-of-fact, rather than jealous or accusing, “That’s as much dangerous as it is beautiful.”

Judgmental bitch.

Brittany crossed her arms petulantly, “You don’t know the first thing about us.” 

It was a weak argument, and one Brittany herself barely believed to be true anymore. She stuck with it anyway, because she so desperately wanted it to be.

“I know she won’t survive another _Mayan apocalypse wedding,_ ” Rachel bit back, and if Brittany weren’t so offended by it, she might’ve admired the diva’s tenacity in defending Santana.

“There won’t be one.” 

Rachel paused. It was pretty clear they were doing that thing again where Brittany was having a literal conversation, whereas Rachel was dishing out an overabundance of subtext instead of getting to the point. The diva seemed to realise it too, because she changed tact. She stepped forward, placing a hand on her arm and checking behind the curtain, making sure Santana was still asleep. 

“If she loses you again, that’s it for her. You understand that, right?” Rachel’s eyes bore into her.

Brittany hesitated. For the first time, she couldn’t find it within her to be mad at Rachel, even though her tone still reeked of condescension. Because she was looking out for Santana. 

Even if it happened to be at Brittany’s expense.

It was odd, to think of a Rachel Berry that did something like that, because Brittany hadn’t encountered her before. The Rachel Berry she knew never would have helped Brittany in the alley like that. She would’ve been far too focused on drawing a crowd to parade the tragedy in front of, to bother helping Brittany find something tangible for Santana to latch onto. That Rachel wouldn’t have known where to start when it came to helping, even if she wanted to, and she definitely wouldn’t have been respectful enough to step back and let Brittany lead them through such a big moment. This Rachel Berry, who was now advocating for Santana to an audience of none, was not a person Brittany had met before.

She didn’t hate it.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Brittany stated simply, because she believed it.

“You can’t promise that,” Rachel shook her head, reflexively, and this time Brittany actually _did_ understand the subtext.

Finn.

Brittany was in two minds about how to respond. 

The angry part of her, that had just been lectured by Rachel Berry, wanted to scold the girl for once again managing to make a situation about herself, when it had absolutely nothing to do with her and everything to do with Brittany and Santana. The rest of her, though, wanted to give Rachel a hug because Finn was gone, and that was sad, and her opinion of the girl had shifted just enough in the last few minutes to a point where she might actually care a tiny bit about her feelings now.

She settled for saying nothing at all.

Rachel gathered herself and moved away, pausing at the curtain in front of Kurt’s room. Personal growth aside, a conversation with Rachel Berry would never be complete without a heart-stopping final line, delivered dramatically to resounding applause. Brittany waited patiently, as all good audiences do.

“I’m not going to apologise for caring about Santana,” she spoke, voice laced with sombre resignation, “I would’ve thought you, of all people, would never ask me to.”

And the crowd went wild.

Brittany watched until Rachel disappeared behind the curtain, then glanced over her shoulder towards the couch, “Tina Cohen-Chang, if you ever repeat a single word of that, I'll tell Mike and Blaine about your secret foot picture stash.”

“Understood,” came the muffled reply from under the blankets.

* * *

Santana was fast asleep, her breathing steady and body relaxed. Brittany crawled into the empty side of the bed, and lay on her back facing the roof. She twirled Rachel’s comments around in her brain, bouncing mostly between guilt over Sam and the aching sense of dread brought about by that one horribly insightful comment she couldn’t shake. 

_If she loses you again, that’s it for her._

Rolling onto her side, Brittany watched her girlfriend sleep. She couldn't help but simultaneously think of every single second of their lives that had led to them being here tonight, in Rachel Berry's bed. Together.

'Get a girlfriend, not a best friend.' It seemed like such a simple request at the time. Brittany had managed it easily. She liked Sam, and they had fun together. He could distract her from the gaping hole in her chest, satisfy a need, but he was never forever. All she wanted was for Santana to find that too; a stop-gap, someone she could love, but not as much as she loved Brittany, or as much as Brittany loved her.

Move on from me, she’d asked, but not in the way that counts.

Except Santana wasn’t like Brittany. Santana was a slow burn, who had to grow comfortable with people before she’d let them pass through the icy facade and get a glimpse of the expansive diamond mine buried beneath. For Santana, to live a life without friends was to live a life hidden. Santana wasn’t at her happiest around Brittany because they were girlfriends; that was just the icing on the cake. Santana was at her happiest, the most _herself,_ around Brittany, because she was the most comfortable with her. Because Brittany was her best friend.

A best friend who sent her to New York, alone.

Weary eyes flickered open in front of her, then Santana’s thumb was gently wiping away a tear from Brittany's cheek before the blonde realised she was crying. Brittany tugged at her girlfriend’s shirt, pulling Santana in until she lay flush against her chest. Santana sighed, weaving their legs together intimately and wrapping her arms around Brittany's waist. They clutched onto each other desperately, both more afraid than ever of what might happen if the other were to one day let go.

“I get it now,” Brittany whispered.

“What?” Santana’s reply vibrated against the blonde's chest, muffled by the fabric of her sleep-shirt.

“You and Rachel,” she clarified, “I don’t like it, but I get it.”

Her girlfriend exhaled softly, and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the crevice of Brittany's neck. They fell asleep within minutes; with no tears left to cry, or words that couldn't wait until morning.

Hours later, when Kurt and Blaine crashed into the apartment in a loud flurry of discarded clothes and sloppy kisses, Brittany said nothing of the way Rachel crawled into bed on Santana’s other side, falling straight into a deep slumber. Nor did she protest when the diva’s hand found Santana’s spare one in her sleep, attaching them together softly in a movement so rehearsed that neither of them woke. Brittany decided in that moment that she wouldn’t say anything, ever again, when it came to the unlikely allyship between the diva and the love of her life. Because Rachel was right. 

Brittany could never fault someone for loving Santana. 

In middle school, Brittany played Jenga with her classmates instead of her parents. 

The tower still fell down all the time, but it was easier to rebuild because there were more people who could do it properly.

The tower fell tonight, and Brittany hadn't been prepared enough to rebuild it alone.

Maybe it was okay to have help sometimes.

Or, maybe they needed to work harder to keep the tower standing up in the first place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	18. Better Know There's Life in Her Yet (Santana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana and Brittany forget what locks are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this chapter took a while longer than planned... Hope you all enjoy it!

The game of life is a funny old thing.

It’s volatile. 

One minute you’re on top of the world, and the next?

You’re not. 

Santana’s Abuela always said the beginning and the end of a person’s story mattered far less than the journey in between. 

But Santana’s story was messy, and involved getting disowned by that very same Abuela. So, she threw the story analogy out completely. 

Life was a game. 

Santana was losing.

* * *

Santana woke to the feel of a warm body underneath her. Her head was pounding, ears ringing, and she couldn’t recall how she got home. She sighed warily, pressing soft kisses into Brittany’s neck as she brought a hand up to trace lightly against her breast. The movement caused the girl beneath her to release a sleepy, muffled moan that was-

Not Brittany.

Panicking, Santana jolted upright. She looked down at the girl in bed next to her, both disgusted and relieved to see it had only been Rachel on the receiving end of her shameless groping. Given how foggy her memory of the night before was, she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been momentarily worried she’d done something, or someone, stupid. But there was absolutely no amount of alcohol in the world that’d let that happen with her roommate, so they were in the clear; because yuck... No way. Never.

The space on the other side of Santana was empty, sans an imprint of a body that must not have long left her side. Brittany’s jacket was folded neatly by the bed, but the girl herself was nowhere to be found. Santana shook the covers off, intent on getting to the bathroom to wash the feeling of Rachel Berry’s boob off her hands as soon as possible. 

It was there, as she stumbled half-asleep through the door to their dingy little bathroom, that Santana found her. Brittany was leaning against the sink, cheeks stained with tears. She spun around in shock at the intrusion, wiping at her eyes in a vain effort to hide the evidence. No sooner had Santana witnessed it than had there been a sense of dread building in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t quite explain away.

Had she done this?

Santana slid through the door, locking it behind her. Whatever this was, she was determined to find out the damage before someone else inevitably interrupted them. 

“Hey,” she edged towards the blonde, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Brittany’s smile was strained, and not at all convincing, “I’m fine.”

Santana sighed, nudging the other girl so that she was backed against the counter. Brittany reluctantly allowed herself to be manoeuvred, sitting up on the bench and tugging Santana inward to rest between her legs. They fit together like jigsaw pieces, and Santana assumed whatever she’d done couldn’t have been that bad if Brittany was still letting her in this close. Nonetheless, she had to know.

“Britt,” Santana pinned the blonde to the bench, placing her hands either side of Brittany’s waist, “Talk to me.” 

All Brittany did was avert her gaze again, but this time Santana followed it. She quirked a playful eyebrow, head weaving around after Brittany’s in a teasing effort to catch her girlfriend’s eye. After a few failed attempts, Brittany stifled a wet laugh and shook her head in disbelief, conceding defeat. She swallowed, and her voice was so soft that Santana had to strain to hear her.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. No, Santana didn’t remember. 

What she did remember was another morning, not too long ago, when she’d said those exact words to Rachel Berry after pulling her away from the edge of a multi-storey building. That alone was enough to strike fear into her now at hearing them parroted back to her in the same tone of voice.A million possible scenarios ran through her head; none of them good.

“No,” she stammered, “I-”

Santana barely got another syllable out, because then it hit. 

An unfamiliar alleyway. 

A foggy speck of a memory. Brittany holding her tight against an uncomfortable wall. 

An even less familiar acoustic cover of one of their favourite songs. 

_His_ voice, his hands... Both there and not there; inexplicably tangled with the other new memories somehow. 

Fighting back. Winning, like she did in her dreams. Only this one felt indeterminably more real. Similar to...

Another night on a couch in Lima, where Santana had fought back. A night where she’d-

A finger grazed against her chin, tilting her head up. Brittany’s eyes sparkled softly, and Santana could tell she’d been following the mental journey along with her just now.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Santana choked out, terrified of a yes.

“No,” Brittany’s lips quirked into a sad grimace, voice wavering, “Just yourself.”

It was only then that Santana caught her own reflection in the mirror. Claw marks littered her arms, her neck, her face… 

It didn’t make sense. There was no way in the world she’d ever do that to herself, but Brittany just told her she had. It didn’t make sense. Santana wasn’t like that. She didn’t just lash out at herself in the middle of an alleyway and then wake up with no memory of it. That was the kind of stuff crazy people did. Not her. She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t.

The tears slipped out, and Brittany was wiping them away before Santana could register that they were even there. She leaned into the touch, sniffling.

“I tried to stop you,” Brittany whispered, “I’m so sorry Santana.”

“What? No.” Santana frowned, because she knew what Brittany was apologising for and it was bullshit. She shouldn't have to. “ _I’m_ sorry Brittany.”

Brittany, though, had been steely as ever in her resolve to unfairly shoulder Santana’s burdens for her. She shook her head profusely, “I should’ve been able to snap you out of it sooner.”

“I was reckless,” Santana argued, “I should’ve known not to drink that much.”

“No, I kept buying you drinks. I should’ve stopped you,” Brittany retorted.

“I shouldn’t have put you in a position where you had to!”

Santana hadn't meant to yell.

It was the closest they’d come to having an argument since Brittany had moved to New York, and Santana wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it was. Only they would fight over something so trivial as to who was at fault for something like this, and insist on blaming themselves instead of each other. The moment might’ve been cute if it didn’t hurt so much.

But also, it was absolutely Santana’s fault. 

Not Brittany’s. 

The tears were once again escaping before Santana could stop them. She cast her eyes down to hide them away, but it seemed Brittany had been doing the same, because when Santana finally shifted their heads had bumped together. Brittany took the opportunity to hold Santana there, gripping at her hand and pulling her into a close-knit hug. Santana sighed into the sensation of strong arms wrapping around her shoulder blades, burying her head into the blonde’s chest in the hope of hiding there forever.

It was a while before they pulled away, but when they did, Santana found comfort in the way Brittany continued to rub circles into her lower back. Still, it paled in comparison to the gut-wrenching emptiness she felt at the vague memory of what happened last night. Santana was pretty sure she’d just taken about ten steps backwards.

“I can’t believe I messed this up,” she winced. 

Santana could’ve kicked herself. They had such a good thing going. Last night had been the first time in months where she felt comfortable being out and about with Brittany. Being _them_ , without fear of consequence. How was she supposed to do that again when she’d proven her every fear right now? Because there _had_ been a consequence. One that hurt them.

“Hey,” Brittany scolded, capturing Santana by the chin in a loose hold so she couldn’t look away, “It’s not a straight line, remember? They wouldn’t call it a recovery squiggle if it was.”

Santana chuckled, allowing Brittany to wipe the tears from her cheek. Whilst she was pretty sure a recovery squiggle wasn't a universally recognised term, that particular Brittany-ism hadn't been lost on her. If there really was a God, Santana thought she might owe them a great debt for allowing her the good fortune of being loved by someone with as much patience and understanding as Brittany S. Pierce. 

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Brittany swept her into a hug, and Santana might have found comfort in it if not for the way the other girl's breathing was a half step out of sync with her own.  It was a bleak reminder of the very reason she’d locked the door in the first place, and enough to make Santana shuffle back to straighten things out, “Are you okay?”

The blonde stiffened, then released a laboured sigh, “I think I just have an emotional hangover from last night… and an actual hangover.”

It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes either. Santana rubbed her hands up and down the other girl’s thighs, quietly urging her to continue.

“I guess I’m just sad, because I was honestly so useless last night, Santana.” Brittany babbled, getting restless under Santana’s touch, “You were in so much pain and nothing I did made it any better. Then Rachel said all this stuff after we got home and my brain is kind of spinning out over it, but it's honestly fine. Don’t worry about me right now.”

“Hey, hey,” Santana spoke firmly, taking Brittany by the hand and gripping it tightly against her own chest, “Stop it. Breathe.”

Brittany froze. Her blue eyes were watery, and Santana fought against the urge to cave in on herself for whatever she’d done to make Brittany think she needed to hide her feelings away again. Granted, this whole ‘recovery’ schtick was new territory for both of them, but she would’ve thought the basic rules still applied. 

“We’ll talk about whatever that Rachel thing is later,” Santana soothed, “But your feelings matter just as much as mine do, Brittany. About this, and everything else. Okay?”

“Okay.”

That must’ve been enough, because then Brittany was pulling Santana in so impossibly close against the bench that Santana was sure her feet had risen up from the ground with the momentum. Brittany rested their noses together, lips capturing Santana’s in a kiss so all-consuming that Santana forgot about the thousands of other questions about last night still begging to be answered.

None of that mattered when Brittany’s lips were sliding hungrily against hers, not when Brittany was yanking their bodies flush against each other and wrapping two legs around her waist. The blonde sighed against the her mouth, breathing becoming more ragged by the minute. Santana could feel her own movements growing hungry, dominant. She made quick work of Brittany’s shirt and bra, kissing her way down the blonde’s neck with fervent intent until her lips reached the soft flesh of Brittany’s chest. 

Santana ignored the way her heart was pounding as she took one breast into her mouth, tracing her tongue around the nipple whilst rolling the other gently between her fingertips. She ignored the catch in her throat, growing ever more claustrophobic by the minute as Brittany’s hands clutched her in a near-carnal embrace, instead focusing on the way Brittany writhed beneath her touch. She ignored it all, because up until now it hadn’t occurred to her that she could. 

Now, Santana saw what needed to be done with such overwhelming clarity that she wondered how she hadn’t seen it sooner. She couldn’t do this for herself; not yet. But she could do this for Brittany. 

She had to.

“Let me take care of you,” It was more of a plea than anything else. Santana’s mouth collapsed back against Brittany’s, swallowing the almost sinful moan that erupted from the other girl’s throat and taking it as permission to continue. 

There was a desperation about it all that probably wasn’t right for their first time together again, but Santana quickly convinced herself it was only _because_ they hadn’t been together in so long. They had every right to be desperate.  She ignored the growing sense of discomfort she felt, all the more obvious when Brittany’s hand glided under her top, because it wasn’t relevant. This wasn’t about her. Santana diverted the hand away gently, distracting Brittany with a trail of barely-there kisses down her body, stopping only when she reached the waistband of Brittany’s sleep shorts.

Brittany lifted her hips and in an instant Santana had discarded the fabric, tossing it somewhere near the basin beside them. She felt Brittany’s hands threading through her hair, digging into her scalp as Santana pressed slow, open mouthed kisses up the inside of her thighs. Santana reached the thin material that covered Brittany’s centre, tracing the outside of it with her tongue at an agonisingly slow pace and revelling in the way Brittany wrapped her legs around her shoulders in response. 

Santana found herself getting lost in the way Brittany felt against her. Lost in the moans Brittany made every time her tongue teased at another long-forgotten sensitive spot that only the two of them had ever discovered. Lost in Brittany’s scent, which she’d been deprived of for so long and foolish enough not to savour properly the last time they’d been together. Lost in everything that was so fundamentally _Brittany._ So lost, that she hadn’t noticed the way the other girl’s expression clouded over until it was too late to fix it.

Santana had been just about to remove the final barrier between them, anxious to taste Brittany properly again after so long apart, when a hand started tugging lightly on her hair. Like so many other things in that moment, she ignored it at first. It was easy to pretend Britt was just reacting to her tongue; playing rough, even. But then the tug became insistent, and Santana sighed in defeat, mapping Brittany's body with her lips as she ascended it, melting their mouths together in a sloppy, frantic kiss.

But then Brittany was pushing her away from that too, and Santana was so confused she didn’t register what was happening until a soft but firm hand palmed against her chest to stop her from moving in again. 

“Not like this,” Brittany panted, “Not until you’re ready too.”

Santana faltered. She'd been called out.

Brittany was looking at her so earnestly that Santana knew with every fibre of her being she meant it, and that almost felt like a little _too_ much. Because here was Brittany, one of the most sexual people Santana had ever met aside from herself, willing to forgo that for an indeterminable amount of time. All for Santana’s benefit. 

It was a gesture so sweet and so _Brittany_ that Santana almost felt herself crumbling under the weight of the expectation it held. She had to get that out now, before it destroyed them both.

“What if I’m never ready?” she whispered

But all Brittany did was smile softly, snaking her arms around Santana’s waist to pull her in against her bare chest.

“Then neither am I.”

Santana released a strangled, involuntary sob, before collapsing into her hold. There, in Brittany’s arms, she knew with absolute certainty that theirs was the kind of love capable of lighting entire worlds on fire with the strike of a single match. She just hoped to god that neither of them ever got burned.

Later, after they pulled away, Santana watched Brittany put her clothes back on in the same way one might watch a sunset; quietly, in awestruck contemplation of such a natural wonder. She’d almost forgotten how confident Brittany was, suddenly recalling all those times after Cheerios practice where the two of them would wander around the locker room with no clothes on like it was second nature. Her breath caught in her throat, and she briefly considered whether now might be the perfect time to mention-

No.

Not relevant.

“I accidentally grabbed Rachel’s boob in bed this morning,” Santana admitted instead. She cleared her throat uncomfortably, whilst handing Brittany her shorts.

Brittany recoiled, swatting Santana’s hand away and shoving her towards the sink.

“Gross. Wash your hands!”

* * *

Three days passed before Santana had a chance to corner Rachel about what Brittany had told her. Or, more specifically, what she hadn’t told her. 

After they left the bathroom, Brittany had been dismissive; insisting she and Rachel just got caught in the heat of the moment and everything was fine. But they’d been dancing around each other ever since. Now, Brittany seemed hesitant to throw any of her signature shade Rachel’s way, which was entirely unlike her. Santana could only assume it was Rachel’s fault.

They were in their shared dressing room, hanging out until intermission was over. Santana sat perched on the makeup table, reapplying Rachel’s mascara. Now felt as good a time as any to ask, mostly because the broadway starlet wouldn’t be able to run away without risking some serious raccoon eyes.

“What happened between you and Brittany?” 

Rachel stilled in her seat, swallowing, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Cut the crap, Rachel,” Santana had always been able to tell when Rachel was lying, mostly because she wasn’t any good at it.

Her roommate grew defensive. Petulant, even. Santana raised an eyebrow, forcing them into a non-verbal duel until Rachel finally cracked. “I don't know what she told you, but it wasn't a big deal. We had a perfectly civil conversation.”

“She hasn’t told me anything,” Santana retorted, “That’s the problem.” 

“Well then how do you know anything happened at all, hmm?” Rachel challenged.

Santana frowned, perplexed yet somehow completely unsurprised that Rachel would be dumb enough to try that on with her. “Because you _just_ told me it did.”

Rachel’s eyes widened, then she pushed her chair back to create more distance between the two; scrutinising Santana as if trying to decide what to say. Santana leant back against the mirror, waiting expectantly.

“I would say the conversation doesn’t matter so much as the understanding that was reached at the end of it,” Rachel shrugged, taking a sudden interest in the wall behind Santana’s head.

Maybe it was irrational, but it was just such a cryptic way of responding that it irked Santana. She groaned, rolling her eyes, “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you scared us, Santana. Just leave it alone.” Rachel snapped.

Santana paused, watching the other girl carefully. Rachel’s outburst seemed to have surprised even her. It lulled them both into an uncomfortable silence, both waiting for the other to recover and rise above.

“Sorry, I just…” Santana felt heat rising in her cheeks, like a toddler who’d just been reprimanded, “You can be really intense, Rachel. Not everyone appreciates that.”

“Granted, yes that’s true,” Rachel admitted, “But I like to think Brittany did.”

The comment only made Santana more eager to find out what the exact details of Brittany and Rachel’s conversation had been, but she was smart enough to leave well enough alone. They had about two minutes before Rachel was called out for the final act, and there was no way her roommate was budging on this. Breathing in, Santana diverted to the only other part of the conversation worth resolving before Rachel left.

“I scared me too.” 

It was a quiet admission. Perhaps if they’d been in a more crowded room, with people and music and background noise, it was the kind of admission that would slip into the ether without any acknowledgement from anyone. But this room was empty, except for the two of them, and Rachel heard it loud and clear. Her lips curved into a sad, upward smile.

“Yeah, I get that.” the diva's eyes clouded over for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to remind Santana that she wasn’t the only one of them to have had a major drunken meltdown this year. It begged another question, that she probably should've thought to ask sooner.

“Have you talked to someone about that night, Rachel?" Santana queried, "Like, a therapist?” 

Rachel waved her away, grabbing her wig from the stand and readying herself to go back on stage. With a wink, she diverted the attention back to Santana effortlessly as she walked out the door.

“Have you?”

* * *

It was another two weeks before Santana saw Kathy again.

The stupid bitch went on holidays the _one time_ Santana actually needed to talk to her. 

Two weeks of sitting on the knowledge that she’d had what Google called a ‘dissociative breakdown’ in an alleyway.

Two weeks of watching the marks on her body heal, and pretending like it didn’t freak her out that they were there in the first place.

Two weeks of pretending she didn’t notice Brittany looking at them the same way too.

Two weeks of Santana wondering why she got so drunk to begin with, when it was her first real night out since the incident and Kathy told her not to.

Two weeks of feeling like she should’ve known better.

There was a lot she needed to get out today before she exploded, but Santana still managed to be about ten minutes late. She crashed through the door, iced coffee in one hand and hot coffee in the other, the latter of which she was hoping would be a sufficient apology for her tardiness. She dropped the cup in front of Kathy, collapsing into the chair opposite her. 

“You’re late.” Kathy commented, accepting the drink nonetheless.

Santana sipped hers through the straw, raising an incredulous eyebrow at the woman, “You’re _welcome.”_

“While I am grateful for the coffee,” Kathy hummed, “I’d much rather you showed up on time. How’d you even know my order?”

“Skinny flat white for a skinny flat white.” Santana shrugged nonchalantly

If Kathy was an expert in anything, it was her ability to overlook Santana’s insults as if she’d never heard them in the first place. Seriously, it was almost annoying. The woman set her cup back down on the table, watching Santana with an unreadable expression on her face like she always did. 

“So, it’s been longer than usual since our last session. How are things going?” Kathy asked eventually. By now, she’d no doubt realised Santana was more interested in drinking her iced coffee than starting the conversation. Which was ironic, given how much she had to say today.

Santana scoffed into her straw, “Not great.”

“I see,” Kathy hummed, “Last time we spoke, you mentioned things were settling somewhat. Did something change?”

“Yeah, kind of.” Santana nodded, swallowing tightly, “I tried that thing you said about being more affectionate with Britt in public, but then I got a little drunk after. Or during…”

Kathy’s eyes flicked up. Santana braced herself for the inevitable lecture. She hadn't received one from a therapist before, but she assumed it’d be similar to the kind of sanctimonious bullshit Rachel and Kurt were always handing out to her. She and Kathy had talked about drinking ages ago, and agreed that probably wasn't the best idea for a while. See, alcohol lowers your inhibitions, meaning the bad stuff is way more likely to spill out without all the usual barriers in place to stop it. Lord knows Santana had _plenty_ of bad stuff to spill lately.

“Were you verbally abusive again?”

It hadn’t been the question Santana was expecting. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “No. Way worse.”

As she recapped the night’s events and the incident with Brittany the following morning, Santana tried to gauge Kathy’s reaction. Of course, it was to no avail. The woman was empathetically impassive until the very end.

“It sounds like you might be more worried about Brittany’s reaction to the event than you are about the event itself?” Kathy observed.

“Are you asking me or telling me,” Santana quipped, correcting herself when she felt Kathy’s gaze burning into her. Certain defence mechanisms were hard to shake; her inevitable snark being one of them. She offered up a half-answer in the hope that’d be enough. “I barely remember it. Brittany does.”

But Kathy’s focus remained solely on her. “Does that scare you, not being able to remember?”

Santana winced, choking on a sip of coffee. Always with the hard questions... She twirled the straw between her fingers without looking away from the cup. It would’ve been so much easier if they'd stuck to talking about Brittany.

“A little,” Santana shrugged eventually, “I mean, what if it happens again and I hurt someone?”

Kathy’s eyes glazed over the few visible scratches on Santana’s body that hadn’t yet healed. There were some left on her neck that were too deep to be easily hidden by concealer, and Santana cursed herself for not wearing some sort of scarf to cover them better. When the therapist finally spoke, it was with that annoyingly kind, tubular tone of voice they must all get taught in shrink school.

“It looks to me as if you already have.”

* * *

The rest of Santana’s session with Kathy was… interesting.

Six months ago, Santana wouldn’t have thought there’d ever be a time where she’d voluntarily sit down twice a week and let a near-total stranger interrogate her about her deepest insecurities with such alarming specificity that it left her feeling winded for days afterward. Now, she was _paying_ for it? 

Crazy. 

Sometimes it felt like they were going around in circles. Mostly, because they were. Kathy was all up in Santana's brain, and it was like a maze in there. At every turn, Santana would stumble upon a secret trap and have to work her way out of it before she could pass through. It left her brain feeling like mush, and on certain days Santana was sure she was barely human by the time she left Kathy’s office. 

Today, all she could recall was something about needing to treat herself with the same degree of unconditional love and acceptance she’d treat Brittany with if the situation was reversed. Because 'your number one relationship in life should always be with yourself.'

What a load of crap.

Santana didn’t really want to think about any of it much longer because Brittany was coming over for late lunch after class today, and she was pretty keen not to be walking around like an empty vessel when her girlfriend arrived. They'd barely seen each other all week. She dropped her keys onto the kitchen table, making her way to the bathroom to shower before anyone else got home.

And so began the ritual. Santana closed the bathroom door, grabbing one towel for herself and one for the mirror. She pinned the towel across the front of the reflective surface to cover it entirely, tucking its corners in behind the frame with a practiced ease. Then, and only then, did she start to remove her clothes.

Santana wasn’t exactly proud of this part of her daily routine. She figured it might be something worth bringing up with Kathy, but there honestly hadn’t been time for it yet. They had so much other stuff to cover off. Besides, it wasn’t unusual for people to avoid seeing themselves naked. It wasn’t a big deal.

Admittedly, the first time it happened, a few days after the club, Santana had been a little confused by it. After all, it’d never really been a problem before. But then a few more days passed and that weird feeling got easier to overlook, so she didn't exactly lose sleep over it. Now, it'd become such a force of habit that one could argue it was less of a ‘problem’ and more a cute little character quirk Santana had developed as she grew older. Some people took up knitting, or collected antique mugs; Santana couldn’t stand the sight of herself naked anymore. 

Same difference. 

It was an iron-clad routine. Completely foolproof, and no one would ever have to know until they knew. Santana reasoned there were no timeframes on these kinds of things, meaning she could disclose it to people as and when she needed to. In other words, not right now. Maybe never.

But even the most iron-clad operations are easily felled by idiocy, and nothing had been more idiotic than the oversight on Santana’s part in not locking the bathroom door that day. When the latch clicked open, Santana braced herself for Kurt’s inevitable shriek of terror, knowing Rachel was already at the theatre prepping for tonight’s show. On the bright side, he'd probably be too horrified to notice the mirror, so this wasn't the end of the world. Except, it wasn’t Kurt. Life hadn’t been gracious enough to allow her that.

It was Brittany.

Santana shrieked, rushing to cover herself with a bath towel. Brittany barely moved, frozen in the doorway. Watching. A surge of panic had overtaken Santana which she couldn’t explain. Obviously Brittany had seen her naked countless times before. They used to _bathe_ together regularly, even when they were ‘just friends.’ This wasn’t anything new. 

Why, then, did it feel as if she’d just been exposed to all of New York City?

Brittany closed the door behind her; locking it properly this time. She waited patiently until Santana had collected herself, politely averting her gaze towards the bathroom counter. 

“You’re early,” Santana clutched to the towel around her body, trying to recover what was left of her dignity.

Britt’s focus had been elsewhere, though, and when Santana followed her line of sight her heart sank at the realisation it was directed solely at the mirror. Or, more specifically, the towel that covered it. Brittany’s face fell, as if she’d just found the final piece of the puzzle in solving the world’s most intricate math equation. What was that again, the Riemann hypothesis?

Santana felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to explain herself, but it was no use. Brittany got in first. 

“Santana,” she breathed, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There it was. 

It was the very voice, Santana realised, she had been avoiding up until now. The reason she’d rationalised this as a quirk; the reason she’d kept it private despite the rest of her baggage already being on show for all to see. It was a voice not laced with sympathy, or pity. Brittany would never disrespect her like that. No, it was something far, far worse.

Understanding.

Worse, because it was the kind of understanding Santana wasn’t ready for, and that only Brittany could ever give. Because Brittany nearly always understood Santana before she understood herself, but sometimes the timing wasn’t right. Sometimes, Santana wasn’t _ready_ to be understood yet. She needed a minute first, to find her footing. Life, it seemed, had once again robbed her of any choice in the matter.

At the acute sense of pain stabbing into her lower abdomen, Santana sat down on the rim of the bathtub to steady herself. Her response had been a whispered sob. “I couldn’t.”

Brittany considered her for a moment, then approached slowly until she was only a few inches away. She turned to the mirror, but her eyes remained locked on Santana’s. The blonde reached towards the towel. “I’m going to take this down, is that okay?”

“No,” Santana shook her head. It was stupid, but she wasn’t ready.

“Okay,” Brittany dropped her hand, instead closing the distance between them completely. Her eyes grew dark, throat bobbing as she swallowed nervously. Santana knew what the question was before it came out. 

“Is this why we haven’t-”

“No,” Santana winced, “I don’t think so. Maybe. I told you, it’s like I can’t-”

“Get clean,” Brittany finished for her, kneeling down to eye level. 

All Santana could do was nod, because then Brittany was moving in close, cheek grazing against her own. Santana closed her eyes and braced for the comforting sensation of warm lips against hers, but nothing came. She opened them to find Brittany leaning past her to turn the shower on. Her hand danced underneath the steady stream of cold water, no doubt waiting for it to warm up. The blonde was watching Santana with such intensity that it scared her.

“What are you doing?” Santana fought against the tremor in her voice.

Brittany smiled, reaching for the buckle of her own belt and undoing it. Wordlessly, she removed her jeans, socks, underwear… Santana tried desperately not to let her eyes drift downward at Brittany’s naked form in fear of what it might stir within her. Whatever Brittany had planned, Santana was pretty sure acting like a horny teenage boy would shut it down fairly quickly. It was also a totally inappropriate reaction to their current situation, but she was only human.

A few moments passed, then Brittany was standing there in a loose t-shirt that barely covered her midriff, and not much else. A hand drifted in towards Santana’s own, lingering where it held her towel together.

“Do you trust me?”

That much, Santana could be sure of, “Yes.”

Then the hands were leaving hers again. Brittany freed herself of the shirt and bra to stand completely naked in front of her. Santana was once again reminded of how confident the blonde had always been with her body, and a part of her felt jealous that she couldn’t be like that anymore. It was incredibly difficult to stay mad, though, when the girl she loved was staring at Santana like she was the one responsible for hanging the stars in the sky; let alone when doing it with her clothes off. 

Brittany reached out slowly, coaxing Santana’s hand away with little resistance to let the towel fall open. It landed on the ground with the rest of their clothes, and Santana felt the weight of the world release along with it.

What happened after that was a blur. Mostly, because Santana was way too terrified to comprehend any of it. A hand had taken hers, leading them both into the shower. Warm water cascaded over Santana’s body, with Brittany pressed in tightly behind her; tracing circles into Santana’s hip with her thumb. Santana couldn’t remember the last time she’d been seen like this; been _touched_ like this. This was intimacy in its rawest physical form, and that fact alone was nearly enough to make Santana’s heart skip a beat. When Brittany turned her around, melting their hips together beneath the steady, soothing stream of water, Santana thought it might stop beating completely.

Their faces were mere inches away. Brittany reached behind Santana, taking the body scrub from the shower caddy and squirting a sizeable amount into the palm of her hand. Blue orbs locked with brown, not straying for a second even while the bottle was placed back where it belonged. When Brittany spoke, her words were like fire, breathing new life into Santana after years spent out in the cold. 

“Let me help you get clean, Santana.”

Santana was nodding before she could truly comprehend the weight of the proposal, and all it carried for them. She felt strong hands massaging the body scrub into her shoulders, her neck, her chest… like both their lives depended on it. Brittany’s hands traversed her body, gliding across skin as if Santana was something sacred; something _worthy._

The water had soon begun to run cold, but there was a heat within Brittany’s gaze that could’ve kept Santana alight for days. Brittany settled her hands back around Santana’s waist, tracing foamy circles across the curve of her hipbone, and Santana felt the tension seeping out of her at every touch. For a moment, Santana forgot what it was like to feel anything less than loved, unequivocally. 

Brittany’s hand stalled, then it was slowly tracing the outline of Santana’s body; making its way up to cup her cheek. Brittany leant in closer, trailing kisses along the sharp curve of her jaw in that amazingly soft way of hers that always drove Santana crazy. As her breath hitched, Santana was suddenly more aware than ever of how intimately their bodies were pressed together. More so, she realised how right it finally felt.

“I’m going to move my hands down,” Brittany spoke evenly, and all Santana could do was nod as a group of tentative fingers tiptoed their way past her waistline. 

Brittany traced along her outer thigh, lips coming in to work at the soft flesh between Santana’s neck and shoulder blade to ease her nerves. She kissed away tension Santana didn’t realise had been there in the first place, all the while growing more daring in her hand movements until finally, Santana felt the unmistakeable graze of a finger against her entrance.

This was it.

Santana braced for the panic; the voice in her head, telling her to stop. She braced for the reflexive recoil; the frantic swat of her own hand against Brittany’s in a desperate effort to create distance between them. But it never came.

For months, every shower had felt like a rush to get her clothes back on. Every kiss, every touch from Brittany, had been a mad effort to keep them there. Santana had been a stranger in her own body, keeping the lights on until the real owner came back to retrieve it. Now, under the rapidly cooling water, Brittany almost made her believe the body was her's again. 

Brittany’s hand was hesitant, lingering against her centre as it waited for express permission to continue. Santana rested her forehead against Brittany’s, sighing into the touch as her own hand travelled downwards, closing around Brittany's wrist. She leaned in, lips slanting against the blonde's in a pleading kiss; tongues clashing together in an aching desire to be connected in every conceivable way. Santana parted her legs, urging the blonde’s hand forward until she felt Brittany slip one finger through her folds. She cried out in relief-

“DEFCON 1!! Santana, we have a DEFCON 1!!” 

If life was a game, Santana needed a get out of jail free card.

Because she was going to kill Kurt Hummel.


	19. When She's In Pain, She Pretends (Brittany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany takes a back seat.

Once upon a time, a young girl named Brittany discovered a television program about a man named Ned, who baked pies and woke the dead.

The story of Ned’s life, like many others in the filmic medium before him, was told through the lens of an omnipresent male narrator with a universal accent. 

From time to time, Brittany preferred it when the story of her life was told that way too. 

It made things easier. 

More interesting.

At this very moment, in the city of New York, Brittany S. Pierce was slightly over nineteen years of age. Her girlfriend, Santana, had been nineteen years, 4 months, 2 weeks, 3 days, 7 hours and 2 minutes old. 

And would not be a minute older-

Wait, sorry, wrong script. 

Santana was fine.

Rachel Berry, on the other hand, was missing.

The facts were these:

  1. At approximately 3:23pm on an ordinary Thursday afternoon, Brittany S. Pierce and Santana Lopez had been showering together. 
  2. At 3:24pm on that same afternoon, the couple were rudely intruded upon by Kurt Hummel, a friend to both and roommate to one, who informed them that the illustrious broadway diva, Rachel Berry, had not arrived to complete her self-imposed pre-pre-show Funny Girl rehearsals at the theatre that morning.
  3. Not a soul on Earth had heard from the young woman since Wednesday evening. 



* * *

_Act 1 - The Incident_

**DEFCON 1:** A defence readiness condition (DEFCON) is an alert posture used by the United States armed forces. The five graduated levels of readiness (or statuses of alert) increase in severity to match varying military situations, from DEFCON 5 (least severe) to DEFCON 1 (most severe).

_See also:_ _a phrase used by Kurt Hummel to immediately interrupt what was about to be some insanely hot, highly anticipated shower sex between Brittany S. Pierce and Santana Lopez._

“Kurt, that’s like a DEFCON 38.” Brittany emerged from behind the bedroom curtain, newly dressed in Santana’s clothes, “Maybe even a 60. How high do they go?”

Brittany’s girlfriend, Santana Lopez, was seated in the living room, perched comfortably atop the arm of the lounge chair. Slipping into the familiar routine established during their post-cheer practice showers over the years, Brittany wasted no time stepping up behind the other girl, gently combing through Santana’s wet hair before proceeding to dry it off thoroughly with a hairdryer she had acquired from the bathroom only moments prior.

It seemed Kurt was not impressed by the loud noise. 

Screeching, the boy had thrown a DVD at Brittany before launching into a frantic tirade about the imminent need to convene an emergency meeting about what they were to do in the face of such a catastrophe.

Brittany didn’t understand why it was so catastrophic. Frankly, she was unsure why they were meant to care about anything Rachel Berry said or did now that she was no longer their Glee club overlord, until her girlfriend politely reminded her that they liked Rachel now.

As far as Brittany was concerned, the jury was actually still out on that.

“Calm down, Kurt.” Santana sighed, opting to towel dry her hair instead, “Have you called her Dad?”

Kurt pursed his lips, “Of course.”

“What about her other Dad?”

“Him too.”

What happened over the next few minutes made very little sense to Brittany at the time. It wouldn't be until a few hours later that she would discover exactly why she’d watched Santana and Kurt buzz around the loft, anxiously dividing a long list of possible locations between themselves as they vowed to embark upon a search for their missing friend. 

To Brittany, they looked quite a lot like headless chickens. 

It wasn’t until Kurt eventually left that Santana seemed to remember there was a third person in the room at all. This was something that upset Brittany at the time, and would only go on to fester throughout the day, inevitably sparking some sort of turmoil for the pair later on. 

Brittany watched as Santana threw her still-wet hair into a high ponytail, before grabbing her keys and jacket from near the door. She took her phone out, dialling a number and leaving a voicemail so angry it’s recipient couldn’t possibly have been anyone other than the annoying dwarf in question, whose whereabouts was hitherto unknown.

Then, and only then, did Santana finally look over towards Brittany. Her brown eyes, though disturbingly vacant, still managed to be filled with some semblance of an apology, “I’ve gotta go find her.”

“Let me come with you.” Brittany, having followed Santana towards the exit, reached out to catch Santana’s hand with her own; only to feel her lady-lover and eventual life partner immediately stiffen under her touch. 

Their eyes locked, and so began the endless cha-cha-cha that was their current relationship, wherein each time a step forward was taken it would promptly follow with another two steps back. Santana’s eyes flickered to where Brittany’s hand was, and suddenly the unsuspecting blonde began to fear she may have overstepped. Brittany wasted no time inching back a few steps to accomodate, expertly hiding the hurt she felt when Santana didn’t even attempt to stop her from doing so. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got it.” Santana insisted, eyes darting anywhere around the room that wasn’t the blue orbs opposite her, “Rain-check on lunch?”

“Sure,” Brittany sighed, defeated. 

Santana left without another word, and that was that. 

As the self-appointed narrator of this mundane tale of a legally un-reportable disappearance, Brittany must admit she had been left feeling incredibly out of the loop.

* * *

_Act 2 - The Investigation_

Over an hour passed after Santana Lopez stranded Brittany in a home that was not her own, but the young blonde mathematical genius had yet to find it in her to leave. She sat on the couch in the empty loft, having reasoned with herself that, if by some bizarre chance Rachel Berry _were_ to return to the loft of her own accord, she would be able to make herself useful to the investigation by informing the others. Besides, it wasn’t like she had any other plans for the rest of the afternoon.

They’d just been cancelled.

Hindsight, however, has been dubbed a powerful thing. In it, instances that would have been avoidable with a little bit of prior knowledge become the subject of much frustration. They seem obvious when looking back. Inevitable, perhaps. But in the present moment, they are almost impossible to anticipate.

For example, had Brittany known that Dani No-Last-Name-Lovato-Lookalike would be appearing in the loft, alone, at 4:15pm, she would have been sure to leave the premises by 4:14pm at the latest. As it happened, it was now 4:16pm and they were both standing directly opposite each other, as far away as the small apartment would allow.

“Hi.” Dani smiled tersely, “What are you doing here?”

When a question meets a question, it often only leads to more questions, but that did not stop Brittany from asking one. The same one, in fact.

“What are _you_ doing here?” 

In Dani’s case, it turned out meeting a question with a question instead led to absolute silence. They stood wordlessly for several uncomfortable moments. 

It was only when Dani shuffled awkwardly towards the dining table, dropping a bag that Brittany recognised to be Santana’s, that the dam finally broke; courtesy of Brittany’s jealousy, despite her best efforts to hold it in.

“What are you doing with that?” Brittany asked.

“Santana sent me here to drop it off and wait for Rachel,” Dani cleared her throat, “I didn’t realise-”

“That I’d be here?”

Although the green-eyed monster might be the obvious choice to completely take over Brittany’s state of mind at this point in time, she found herself instead overcome with a great deal of hurt. Here she was, left behind with nothing to do, and Santana had enlisted _Dani_ of all people help her. 

It was hard not to take that personally. 

Collecting her things, Brittany raced towards the door. Unfortunately, it seemed Dani had been carefully observing her silence and had accurately guessed at the issue. The girl seemed desperate to reassure, despite having no real obligation to do so.

“We just ran into each other,” she explained, “I offered to bring Rachel’s bag back, she left it at the diner yesterday.”

“That’s Santana’s bag.” Brittany’s suspicions were only growing.

“Well, it’s been Rachel’s for as long as I’ve know them.” Dani shrugged, evidently biting back whatever else it was she wanted to say.

As Brittany edged closer to the door, it seemed the two women had reached the inevitable impasse that likely often occurs when one is forced to interact with a current or ex partner of your current (or ex) partner. Namely, that they had no common ground to stand on whatsoever, aside from the mutual partner in question. 

After standing there for a few minutes looking torn between convincing Brittany to stay or letting her leave, Dani folded in spite of herself. Meanwhile, for some inexplicable reason, Brittany lingered long enough to be stopped.

“I get that this is weird, Brittany.” the waitress sputtered, “But I have to say it’s a little rich of you to be storming off when you’re the one who cheated with my girlfriend.”

Brittany bristled at the comment. “Santana makes her own decisions.”

“But you influence them.” Dani countered, “When it suits you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dani stood straight, a viper poised for the attack, and it was then that Brittany finally understood how this girl might’ve had enough venom in her to be a worthy match for Santana. “I dated Santana for months. You think we didn’t vent to each other about our exes?”

Then again, maybe she was just a bitch.

“Of course not, but-” Brittany trailed off. A sadistic part of her was curious about what else Dani had to say. “What do you know?”

“Enough to make me not like you.” Dani shrugged so nonchalantly Brittany might’ve slapped her senseless if the laws allowed it, “I’m actually not sure how anyone could get back together with a person who ‘accidentally’ outed them on an internet talkshow, or released a sex tape without their permission and refused to take it down. You know that can be treated as a criminal offence, right? You guys were underage.”

“Santana was okay with it.”

“Was she?”

Brittany recalled that fateful day, not so long ago, when she had proudly released the creative masterpiece that was their sex tape for all to see. She had done so with the hope of elevating Santana’s status; of it becoming a stepping stone towards the fame she craved so clearly. Of course, it had been such a roaring success that perhaps she had paid too little attention to the panic in Santana’s voice when she discovered their private matters had been granted the widespread online release, and certainly not given much notice to the begrudging anger the other girl displayed towards her when they met in the library later that day. She contemplated it carefully now. 

Very carefully indeed.

Apparently, such contemplation misled certain _others_ in the room to assume they had license to continue talking.

“Look, Santana picked you. She obviously loves you, so I’m not trying to be a bitch about it.” Dani rolled her eyes, “I guess I’m just asking you not to be one either.”

“Fine.”

In most mundane tales of life, this would be the end of the conversation between one Brittany S. Pierce and Dani No-Last-Name-Lovato-Lookalike. However, there was a reason Brittany had chosen this day, of all the days in her life, to narrate in such a way. Dani’s true purpose in this chapter of the story, was yet to be revealed.

“Since you know so much,” Brittany huffed, “Maybe you could tell me why Santana and Kurt are flipping out when Rachel’s only been off the grid for a few hours?”

Brittany had only intended it as a half-hearted peace gesture, of sorts. Perhaps somewhat foolishly, she’d assumed Dani would agree with her about how ridiculous it was. Then, they could at least end the incredibly awkward conversation they had been having on a high note. Instead, Brittany was reminded once again of how little she understood about their current predicament when the other girl’s face fell into complete shock.

“Wait, you don’t know?”

Often, the clues you get can lead to more questions than answers.

* * *

_Act 3 - The Curveball_

The facts were these:

  1. On a clear night, many months ago after far too many shots of tequila, a grief-stricken Rachel Berry had very nearly toppled off the roof of a multi-storey building. 
  2. Santana Lopez, and to a lesser extent Kurt Hummel, had saved her life.
  3. Ms. Berry’s exact motives, to this day, remain unknown to all including the woman herself.
  4. This incident had been common knowledge to everyone involved in today’s rescue efforts, except Brittany. (Then again, that may have been why she was excluded in the first place).



With the bombshell dropped and the case of Rachel Berry’s disappearance blown wide open, Dani bid a polite adieu and once again left Brittany alone in the loft. She waited there for approximately one hour, eleven minutes and thirty seven seconds until her girlfriend hauled herself back through the front door and parked herself in the chair opposite Brittany at the dining table. With bloodshot eyes and barely concealed tear-tracks across both cheeks, it was clear to any onlooker that this was not the same Santana who’d left the apartment only hours earlier.

“You waited.” Santana stammered, wiping at her eyes. 

Brittany elected to ignore the way her girlfriend was silently scanning the apartment, no doubt curious as to where the blonde she’d _actually_ appointed to keep watch at the loft was. It felt like a somewhat contentious topic to bring up, in the wider scheme of things. So, she elected not to for the time being.

“Of course. Any luck finding her?”

“She’s in LA,” Santana’s voice broke, “We don’t know where, or why. She told Quinn she was going, but no one’s heard from her since.”

Armed with knowledge she hadn’t yet been given permission to possess, Brittany recognised the waver in Santana’s voice for what it was. Sheer, if somewhat bitter, relief.

“Well, that’s good right?” she coaxed a watery smile out of Santana, “I mean, she’s safe.”

“Yeah.”

As Brittany watched the love of her life sit there quietly, present in body but absent in mind, she found herself unable to decide her next move. There was much to discuss, but no particularly opportune means to say anything; not to mention the things she wasn’t meant to know about in the first place. Brittany supposed a person’s decision to say or not say something at any given point in their life could have drastic consequences if it was said (or not) at a time when the intended recipient was not in the right mindset to hear it. 

She had to be careful.

In this moment, it was abundantly clear that Santana was experiencing a certain degree of distress, no doubt stemming from the rather brutal emotional whiplash caused by discovering the person you’d rather rationally worried may be placing themselves in mortal danger once again was instead drinking mojitos on a sandy beach somewhere and simply hadn’t had the decency to let you know about it. And so, with a heavy heart, Brittany took her cue from every male writer who’d ever sought to make his female character more interesting, by burying her pain completely in an attempt to appear strong.

Perhaps it was true that she had been left out of the fold by Santana Lopez, the love of her life, and that hurt immeasurably. But it had long since become clear to Brittany that this chapter of the episodic television series in which they both featured was not actually one of hers. Because if Rachel Berry, the star of the Broadway musical ‘Funny Girl’ was nowhere to be seen, then the Broadway musical ‘Funny Girl’ would naturally call upon her understudy to fulfil the leading role in her place. 

Santana Lopez was about to get her Broadway Debut!

“So, if Rachel’s in LA,” Brittany spoke tentatively, “That means you have a show to get to. Right?”

Judging entirely by the way Santana’s face fell, Brittany surmised that this particular tidbit of information had briefly eluded her. 

Well, not just the face. 

There was also what her girlfriend had squealed immediately afterwards:

“Fuck.”

* * *

_Act 4 - The Climax_

The show went off without a hitch. 

If anything, and Brittany may have been influenced by a certain degree of bias, the show was _better_ than it usually was. Brittany felt like somewhat of an expert on the subject though, given that she’d watched it about five times since opening night. Santana Lopez was a superstar, and it was obvious to everyone in that audience the minute she took centre stage. 

When the curtain fell, Brittany had raced backstage to the dressing room expecting to congratulate her girlfriend. What she _hadn’t_ expected, however, was to walk into the middle an outright brawl between Santana and the elusive Rachel Berry, who had presumably arrived back in New York at some point during the night’s proceedings. They’d knocked over half of the room, and Santana had the broadway starlet pinned to the ground whilst yelling something incomprehensible in Spanish.

The mysterious case of Rachel Berry’s disappearance was now officially closed.

“Hey,” Brittany raced forward, dragging Santana backward and stepping between the girls, “Stop it. What are you doing?”

Rachel was flustered, but slipped into her usual uppity attitude as effortlessly as one may put on a favourite sweater. “Ask Santana. I simply came backstage to congratulate her on a job well done.”

“Oh no. You don’t get to disappear for a day then act like this is my fault, Berry.” Santana seethed, dusting herself off.

“I’ll act however I want considering you just _attacked_ me, Santana!” 

“You selfish bitch.” Santana lunged forward, but this time Brittany body-blocked her. She pushed them both firmly back into the wall, having every confidence that her own safety would not be threatened in doing so. Brittany was, after all, one of the few people in the known universe capable of avoiding the wrath of the fiery Latina from Lima Heights Adjacent.

“Tana, slow down.” Brittany warned lowly, stroking circles into the palm of the other girl’s hand, “Rachel’s here. She’s _okay._ ”

From the corner of her eye, Brittany saw Rachel soften. The blonde supposed it was all the proof she needed that the friendship between her girlfriend and the broadway diva still had a long way to travel, because it seemed Rachel had only just realised why her so-called ‘best friend’ had been so enraged by her disappearance. Now that she had, Rachel was slowly shrinking into herself, cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. 

Brittany’s words had apparently been enough to get through to Santana too, because her girlfriend nodded quietly before nudging at Brittany’s arm until the blonde released her from against the wall. 

Although apparently not enough to make amends.

“Britt, can you please ask Rachel to leave?” Santana moved towards the dressing table to begin taking her costume off. 

Before Brittany could relay the message, Rachel had rolled her eyes, raising her hands in mock surrender as she traipsed out of the dressing room. “Heard it the first time, thanks.”

With Rachel Berry gone, Brittany was left alone to contemplate the fragile beauty that was the woman in front of her. While Santana Lopez was the most beautiful person Brittany had ever laid eyes upon, it was in these moments, when that ever-present beauty met the particularly intense aspects of Santana’s personality, that she really shone. Santana felt so much, all the time, whilst pretending to feel nothing, that Brittany often wondered how she didn’t shatter completely in the face of it-

“What act are we up to?” Santana’s husky voice broke Brittany’s train of thought. 

Looking up, Brittany caught Santana smirking fondly at her through the reflection of the mirror.

“Four.” Brittany walked towards the chair, resting her hands on the back of it, “How could you tell?”

Santana set her makeup cloth down, swivelling around to face the blonde properly, “You were monologuing out loud.” 

“Oh.”

This moment felt like rather the appropriate time for Brittany to drop her narrative persona, so she did.

At least for the remainder of the fourth act.

Santana tugged gently at the bottom of Brittany’s shirt, and the blonde wasted no time in straddling her girlfriend’s lap. Brittany looped her hands around Santana’s neck, settling into her with a soft sigh as a pair of warm hands began to gently trace patterns along her back. As the touches grew more deliberate, Brittany’s breath hitched. She could already feel the warmth flooding to that achingly familiar place, and realised quickly that she’d made a mistake.

“We need to talk about what just happened,” Brittany frowned, mostly at herself for stopping what was probably about to become an incredibly hot moment.

Beneath her, Santana stiffened, though her hands didn’t stop what they were doing. “Do we though?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“Fine,” Santana sighed, resting her head into Brittany’s chest in defeat. Her words became muffled by the fabric of Brittany’s shirt, “Can we just have one more minute like this first?”

Brittany bit her lip, “Thirty seconds.”

“Deal.” 

It was instinctive, the way Brittany found herself holding onto Santana. The count in her head reached thirty, and she found herself reluctant to ever pull away. Eventually though, the hurt she’d felt earlier that day simmered to the surface, and it was all the reminder Brittany needed to find her resolve again. Forcing herself into a standing position, Brittany gently shook off Santana’s persistent hands and took a seat on top of the dresser instead. Distance was good. They didn't need any distractions right now.

“Dani texted me,” Santana spoke slowly, shifting in her seat so that they were facing each other again, “She, uh… told you about Rachel?”

“Some of it.” Brittany inhaled deeply, “Rachel tried to jump, you held her back… that it really upset you.”

“Yeah, I…” Santana shook her head, “I should’ve been the one to tell you that. I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you then?” Brittany asked.

It was sharper than intended, but Brittany would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little was annoyed. Hurt, even. Because they’d been here before, so many times, and Brittany didn’t expect to be having another conversation about poorly kept secrets so soon after their last one. It felt like they were going around in circles.

Santana watched her carefully, pondering a response for a while. Her gaze was locked on Brittany, eyes wide. Knowing.

“Do you tell me everything that happened to you while we were apart?”

Brittany wanted to argue. Everyone knew she was an open book 99% of the time. It was the other 1% she was certain Santana was referring to, though, even if she’d probably heard half of it through Tina by now anyway.

The 1% being a school shooting that turned out to be a misunderstanding, where Brittany had hidden in a toilet cubicle, fearing for her life.

The 1% being the night she married Sam, for no reason other than the world was ending, and he asked nicely.

The 1% being her first night at MIT, when she cried for hours because she’d never felt so alone before, but didn’t dare call the one person she wanted to call because said person had just been tagged in a photo on Rachel Berry’s Facebook, lying on the floor of their apartment with another girl and looking more carefree than Brittany had seen her in a long time.

Santana raised an eyebrow at her, and it felt very much like check-mate.

“Point taken,” Brittany pursed her lips.

“Listen,” Santana sighed, standing up and crossing the room towards Brittany, “I'm sorry for making you feel like you had to play narrator today. I know you only do that when you feel left out.”

Brittany averted her gaze, bouncing one leg anxiously against the wood beneath it until a soft hand closed over her knee, holding her in place. She looked up to find Santana’s eyes on her, pleading for forgiveness that she wasn’t quite ready to give yet.

Not without an explanation.

“Why did you leave me out?” Brittany asked.

“Britt,” Santana started, faltering slightly, “It’s complicated.”

“Good thing I’m a genius then.”

At that, Santana chuckled. It wasn’t until she caught Brittany watching her, eyebrow quirked in question, that she must’ve realised it wasn't a joke.

Biting her lip, Santana shifted uncomfortably. It took another few seconds before she finally caved. “It’s just… it’s been me and the Wonder Twins vs. the world for a while now, Brittany. Sometimes I forget it’s not anymore.”

“You forgot about me?” Brittany’s voice caught in her throat. 

“Not like that.” Santana shook her head furiously, face reddening in frustration at her own apparent loss for words, “I don’t-”

Without warning, Santana groaned and marched across to the other side of the room to grab her purse. She fumbled for a while, eventually taking a crisp fifty dollar note out of her wallet. She carried it back over, placing it with trembling hands onto Brittany’s lap.

“What’s this?” Brittany took the money, frowning in confusion.

“Fifty-dollars.”

“What for?”

“It's... from Finn.” Santana cleared her throat, “He came to town to help me get rid of the plastic gigolo, and before he left we went for dinner. He said it was a thank you dinner for looking out for Kurt and Rachel when he wasn’t around. But I told him I only accepted payment in the form of fifty dollar bills. Found that in my purse a little while later.”

Brittany’s breath caught in her throat. She played with the note in her hand, mostly to give Santana the space to keep talking without feeling overly watched.

“Never saw him again, after that.” Santana stifled a sob, but Brittany was already rushing forward. She swept the girl up into a hug, propping both of them up against the makeup table.

“Santana,” Brittany cooed, “I’m so sorry.”

They never talked about Finn, and Brittany suspected that she might be somewhat to blame for that. It was embarrassing to admit, but Brittany hadn’t gone to Finn’s memorial because she couldn’t bring herself to get on the plane. It would’ve felt too real, being in that choir room without him standing up the front trying to take the lead and giving weird motivational speeches that barely made sense. Later, when Tina called to tell her about Santana’s breakdown midway through a performance, Brittany realised she’d made a mistake in not going back, because the people she loved were hurting just as much as she was and they needed each other to get through it. But it was too late. She'd missed it, and Santana had avoided the subject ever since.

Finn Hudson’s death was in Santana’s 1%. 

“It’s fine, it’s not like we were that close.” Santana collected herself, stepping back enough to speak through the unshed tears, “But I couldn’t bring myself to spend that money, so it just sat there reminding me to look out for them both every day because no one else would anymore… and now the thought of anything bad happening to them actually makes me feel physically ill. I get this pain in my chest and everything. It’s gross.”

“It’s not gross,” Brittany laughed, tilting her head fondly as she watched the other girl’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. “They’re your family.”

“Yeah, they are.” Santana averted her gaze, “Look, I know I probably went overboard assuming the worst with Rachel today. But that’s because for the three of us, it usually _is._ ”

The comment stopped Brittany’s laughter dead in its tracks.

Although she'd slowly been learning how to be okay with the new pairing, Santana’s relationship with Rachel made a lot more sense to Brittany after what she’d learnt today. The fights, Santana’s reluctant tolerance of the girl's quirks despite their very clear clash in personalities; those things were all inconsequential. Because in the same way that Brittany hadn’t been there for Finn’s death, Santana and Rachel _had_ been. Together. They’d built each other back up, for better or worse, through grief and heartbreak and rooftop mishaps…

Rooftop mishaps, in particular, that now led Santana to display a fierce amount of protectiveness towards Rachel. The kind that kicks into high gear at a moments notice, fuelled by memories of a worst case scenario and a steely determination never to let it become one again. The kind of protectiveness that excludes all others, and hurts girlfriends because they don’t fully understand it yet. 

The kind of protectiveness that gets Santana attacked in a club, because she was too busy looking out for Rachel to remember to look out for herself. 

Brittany recalled the night in Rachel’s hallway where Santana had drunkenly blamed her roommate for all that went wrong, and her heart sank with the newfound understanding of the weight that accusation truly held. It added another layer of complexity to what was already the world’s most intricate best-friendship, and Brittany couldn’t find it within her to be anything other than grateful for finally being allowed in to see it for what it was.

Love didn’t always make sense to outsiders.

“You an amazing person, Santana.” Brittany squeezed her hand, “You know that right?”

When Santana erupted into uproarious laughter, Brittany scrunched her face in confusion.

“What?” she asked, “I’m serious.”

Santana sobered slightly, looking up in disbelief. “No, I’m not.”

Worse than Santana's amusement, was the fact that Brittany knew her girlfriend genuinely believed she wasn't worthy of such high praise. But as far as Brittany was concerned, actions spoke louder than words, and as much as Santana’s words often gave her a bad reputation, she had proven over and over again what she was willing to do for the people she cared about. And even those she cared slightly less about, like Mr. Schue. 

Brittany was tired of people taking her girlfriend at face value all the time. So what if Santana was relentlessly mean to your face every time she saw you? She’d _always_ have your back when you weren’t looking, and that was what really mattered. All Brittany could do was stare pointedly at her girlfriend in the hope that the message would get through. 

It took a while before Santana’s face softened into something close to acceptance, and for a second it looked like she finally believed it too.

In the end, she deflected instead. “Well, you’re even more amazing.”

“Agree to disagree,” Brittany smiled, before that familiar ache began brewing in the pit of her stomach again. 

As much as she understood Santana’s motivations now, Brittany still couldn’t shake the disappointment she felt at being left out earlier. Sure, they’d established that Rachel and Kurt were Santana’s family, and that was lovely. 

But where did that leave her?

“I’m glad you’ve found a family here, Santana.” Brittany whispered timidly, “But if you could include me in it the next time something goes wrong, I think I’d like that a bit more.”

Santana’s face fell, and then she was closing the distance between them both, yanking Brittany in until she was pressed flush against her chest. Brittany yelped, closing her arms around Santana’s waist whilst a pair of soft hands caught either side of her face. Then, brown eyes locked with blue so intently that for once Brittany understood what Santana was always going on about when she talked about Brittany giving her _that look._ Because right now, Santana Lopez was staring at her with so much conviction, so much love, that she may very well have fallen apart had it not been for the fact that the very same girl was holding her together. 

When Santana leaned in slowly, punctuating every word with a soft kiss to her jaw, Brittany nearly dissolved completely.

“You have always been my family.”

* * *

_Act 5 - The Ending_

After their talk, Brittany decided not to bother becoming the narrator again.

She didn’t feel left out anymore.

They were walking home from the theatre, hand in hand, when Brittany decided it might be worthwhile to bring up the rest of the stuff Dani had said so that she could finally close the loop on this horrible day, and hopefully pick up where they left off in the shower tomorrow afternoon like nothing had changed. She shuffled in a little closer towards Santana, wracking her brain for some sort of guidance on how best to start the conversation. Eventually, some words slipped out, and she just rolled with it.

“I took our sex tape down.”

Santana’s eyes shot up immediately, and she stilled for a moment, “What? When?” 

Brittany tugged at Santana’s hand, urging them along the sidewalk, “While I was waiting at the loft earlier. I also reported it as underage content on like… all of the websites that reposted it so hopefully they take it down too.” 

When Santana’s lips curved into a grateful smile, Brittany knew she’d done the right thing. Then, her girlfriend winced, and her eyes clouded with concern again.

“Dani said something to you about it, didn’t she?” she rambled, “Was she a bitch? I’m so sorry. She has opinions about you that I don’t agree-”

“It’s okay,” Brittany shrugged, “She _was_ a bitch, but she was also kind of right… I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you asked me to take it down in senior year. I thought I was helping.”

“I know you did.” .

“And I’m sorry for a lot of other things too,” Brittany sighed heavily, feeling countless apologies about to spill out, “Like marrying Sam when the world was ending, choosing Artie over you, outing us on the phone with half the glee club that time, outing you on Fondue for Two-”

“Woah,” Santana put a hand up to Brittany’s chest as if to stop her, tugging them to the side of the walkway until they were out of the way of oncoming foot traffic. “Britt, we’ve been over all of this already.”

“Not really though,” Brittany pouted, “Stuff happens, then you get a little irritated and forgive me because you understand where I’m coming from when I do it. But just because you understand, doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt you. And I never say sorry, when I probably should.”

“Okay well, what about that time I told you cheating on Artie with me didn’t count because I was a girl?” Santana challenged, “Or when I made a leprechaun wish to get you to join the Troubletones? I didn’t say sorry either.” 

Brittany faltered. Sure, those things _sounded_ bad, but Brittany pretty much understood what was happening both times so it didn’t count. She spoke a different language to most people, and Santana was one of the only people who knew how to negotiate with her properly. Everyone thought that made Santana a bad person because it looked like she was manipulating her, but they were wrong. 

Brittany was only considered an idiot because the world didn’t understand what she was saying. 

Santana understood, and thought she was a genius.

“That's different.” Brittany dismissed, “Plus people got mad at you both of those times, and no one got mad at me.”

Santana softened, placing her hands on either side of Brittany’s jacket and tugging her in closer, “ _You_ didn’t get mad at me, though.”

“Well, yeah.” Brittany shrugged, “I mean, I was a little upset you wasted that leprechaun wish but only because you could’ve used it on something better like a new car or unlimited breadsticks.”

“Why would I wish for that when I could already get as many as I wanted from Breadstix?”

“Okay, but you needed a new car.”

“All I’m saying,” Santana leaned in, tucking a loose strand of Brittany’s hair behind her ear as a thinly veiled excuse to caress her cheek, “Is that what we have works for us. Who cares what it looks like to any of those other losers?”

Brittany considered it for a second, before reluctantly agreeing. She fell forward, dropping her head into Santana’s shoulder to hide her face.

“Okay.” she mumbled into Santana’s coat, “Can you still accept my apology though?”

“Only if you accept mine too.” Santana nudged Brittany gently off her shoulder until they were at eye level with each other again, then leaned forward to capture her lips in a soft, barely there kiss. 

It was everything.

“Just to be clear,” Brittany hummed as they pulled away from each other, “You _don’t_ want me to put our sex tape back online though, right?”

“God no, Britt. That thing stays down.”

“Yep, okay.”

* * *

They came to a stop just outside the front of Santana’s apartment block about an hour later. Brittany had insisted on taking a slight detour to get dinner, so they could make up for their missed lunch from earlier. She wasn’t entirely sure how that led to her being pressed up against a park bench, making out with Santana in what very nearly escalated into a public act of indecency, but Brittany was hardly complaining. 

Santana had possessed enough sense for both of them and stopped it just in time. Not because she wasn’t ready anymore, but because she didn’t want their first time in a long time to be on a grotty old park bench where anyone walking by could get a free ticket to the show. Brittany thought they could’ve made it work, but she appreciated the romanticism of it all and agreed to go home. 

“You should go up and talk to Rachel.” Brittany suggested, “Talk. With words.”

“Can’t I just wait until she falls asleep and deal with it tomorrow?” Santana pouted like a small child, and Brittany fought the urge to kiss it away. 

She lost. 

Santana’s lips were soft, pliant under hers, and the girl herself was just about the greatest thing Brittany had ever tasted. Now that the day’s events were behind them, Brittany was back to hating Kurt for ruining their shower earlier, because she’d been wound up all afternoon and could tell Santana was too. She could feel the desperation in their kisses; in the way they held each other. It felt like a desperate countdown towards the inevitable, except they couldn’t seem to find a moment alone to let the timer hit zero. It hadn’t particularly been a problem before, but now that sex was very much back on the table again, Brittany had become acutely aware of the fact neither she or Santana had a private room to go to. They probably needed to work that one out sooner rather than later. 

But not tonight.

“Go,” Brittany pulled away reluctantly, nudging Santana towards the door of her building, “I’ll come by in the morning.”

With one last peck, and an exaggerated frown that rivalled a toddler who’d just had her toys confiscated, Santana reneged, “Fine. Goodnight.”

Normally, Brittany would take the subway back to her dorm, but it was getting late and she knew how Santana felt about her being out alone at night. She stood on the sidewalk, waiting to wave down the next available cab. It was then that she noticed a trim male figure, staggering towards the apartment building at a scarily slow pace. He stopped just a few feet away; face beaten and bloodied, before crumpling into an unconscious heap on the ground.

Brittany S. Pierce was not an idiot. She definitely knew better than to approach a stranger at night on an empty street in New York, regardless of how messy he looked. Sometimes those guys did it as a ruse to draw people in. It wasn't safe to try and help without back-up. 

But she also wasn’t blind. Brittany raced over to him the minute he fell, without thinking twice.

Because it wasn’t a homeless man, or a hapless drunk scheming to steal her money.

It was Kurt. 

The facts were these:

  1. Something terribly violent and troublingly awful had just happened to Kurt Hummel.
  2. Brittany S. Pierce had no idea what to do.




	20. Just Let Me Be Easy to Love (Rachel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amid the chaos, Rachel has a personal crisis or three.

An empty apartment.

_Well I was the one who showed you the sky_

Shoes abandoned by the front door.

_But you brought it down, down to my thighs_

Discarded clothing, scattered across the living room.

_Sadly believed every word I didn’t mean_

An open diary, its pages tattered yet unused.

_About loving darkness_

Red wine, splashed across the living room floor.

_There it is now, she enters the room_

The creak of a floorboard under the pressure of dancing feet. 

_It guts like a fish to see how she’s grown_

A phone, with no messages.

_Saw me go blind, step out of line_

The vase behind her falls down from the bookshelf.

_You know I can’t help myself_

She takes refuge in the sound of it smashing to pieces.

_When you get your groove on I go blind_

Destruction has never been so beautiful- 

“What the fuck are you doing, Berry?”

* * *

Rachel froze in place, stripped down to her underwear in the living room with music still blaring in her ears. She took her headphones out, but didn’t exactly rush to cover up. 

Santana had seen it all before.

“Having a moment to myself.” Rachel skipped sheepishly over the broken vase, collecting her clothes as she moved through the room. Slipping her sweater back over her head, she ignored the horrified look Santana threw her way as she examined the apartment. 

Okay, so she’d made a bit of a mess.

“It’s no big deal.” Rachel threw in for good measure. Because it wasn’t. What’s one broken vase and a few drops of wine among old friends? The floors were stained enough already anyway.

Santana saw through it immediately, and Rachel cringed at the reminder that the other girl was no longer simply an old high school bully who didn’t know any better. Indifference must’ve looked suspiciously foreign on the face of a girl who cared too much about everything. She ducked behind the bedroom curtain, hoping in vain that her roommate would leave well enough alone.

“Okay, seriously. What is going on with you?” Santana simply followed, arms folded and frowning, “First you skip out on Funny Girl without telling _anyone_ and now you’re destroying our apartment?” 

Rachel rifled through her dresser, pulling out a new pair of pants and climbing into them, “I told Quinn.”

Her best friend scoffed loudly at that, and Rachel rolled her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood to argue. Their fight earlier had been more than sufficient confrontation for one day. No matter what, it always seemed to come back to the two of them getting angry and lashing out at each other, and she didn’t particularly care for it. Rachel knew they’d never be able to shake their old selves off completely. There was too much bad blood between them.

She resented it. 

Then a hand closed gently around her elbow and Santana, the after-dark edition, was there waiting for her when she turned around. The girl had dropped all pretence without warning, disarming Rachel entirely. 

Fine. Perhaps she had been hasty in condemning their friendship earlier, but they didn’t call her a diva for no reason. She did somewhat have a flair for the dramatics. 

In all truth, Rachel had forgiven the other girl for attacking her the minute she realised why, she just hadn't quite been aware of that until now. They’d need to hash it out properly, of course, but the sentiment behind it was actually quite sweet, in a twisted Santana-kind-of way. If Santana was making strides to fix things, then Rachel would meet her in the middle.

Their past was murky and jaded, but Rachel supposed that was part of what made their present so interesting. This was her best friend now, for better _and_ worse; they didn’t know how to do it any other way. 

Santana whispered softly, her voice wavering. “You’re scaring me.”

With her words came an avalanche of emotions Rachel hadn’t been anticipating, shattering her very essence into more pieces than the vase in the space of a single second. If she hadn’t been so busy crying, she might’ve been embarrassed.

Their day had been rife with unfortunate misunderstandings, piling up one after the other, and for a moment Santana looked unsure if choosing to offer comfort might be another. Rachel made the decision for her, dissolving into a watery mess against her chest as Santana’s arms came up to close hesitantly around her shoulders. Santana was safe; a steady, grounding presence in the face of uncertainty, and Rachel needed that now more than ever before.

She owed an explanation, and expected an apology. 

For now, this was enough.

* * *

“A TV pilot?” 

They were sitting on the couch, dutifully ignoring the mess around them in favour of talking things out first. Santana wasn’t even trying to hide her surprise over where Rachel had been all day, and it made her cringe inwardly. The fact she’d hidden her audition from those closest to her should’ve been more than enough indication that it was the wrong move. After all, Rachel had no plans to make her television debut until they commissioned the biopic about her Broadway successes in approximately ten years time, where she would of course play the role of her present-day self.

Rachel hid behind one of Kurt’s fancy pillows, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Well, did it at least go well?” Santana yanked the cushion away from her, pulling it into her own chest instead.

Rachel winced. “No, it was awful.”

“Shit.”

Santana was watching her quietly, swallowing uncomfortably every couple of seconds as if she had words lodged in her throat. Usually that meant an apology was on its way.

“I’m sorry for going all Lima Heights on you earlier,” she managed eventually, “You, uh… I thought… I was worried…”

“I’m sorry too.” Rachel sat up, clearing her throat, “It never occurred to me you guys would freak out, but it should’ve. I was too caught up in my own head, I guess.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I don’t want to be that person. It’s not okay to just… I’m not-” Santana choked, stumbling at the end of the sentence.

Rachel heard her loud and clear.

Santana must’ve realised that too because she immediately avoided eye contact, fiddling anxiously with the little red tassels that were dangling from the pillow. Rachel reached a hand out, playfully emulating Santana’s earlier movement, except removing the pillow gently this time. Santana smiled tentatively, and Rachel shuffled in closer. 

“You’re nothing like him.” Rachel pulled Santana into a hug, squeezing tighter when the tiniest whimper of a sob escaped her roommate’s mouth, “And we’re all good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

They pulled away when it got too awkward to hold on any longer, which was fairly quickly. Santana didn’t tend to enjoy hugs lasting longer than ten seconds with anyone except Brittany nowadays. Not that Rachel was jealous or anything. It was just an observation.

“So,” Santana collected herself, “Are we going to talk about why you’re acting so weird, or?”

“I’m not acting weird,” Rachel scoffed, “LA was a misunderstanding. I know how it looked when you walked in but I was actually just rehearsing a new routine I’ve been working on. And, you’ll never believe me, Santana, but I was dancing and then there was this _bird_ that flew in through the fire escape and-”

“Rachel.”

Okay, so lying wasn't one of her greatest strengths.  Rachel wasn’t sure what the truth was, though.

Actually, maybe she had a fairly good idea. But it was going to seem like it’d come out of left field because she and Santana hadn’t been talking as much lately. Given all that was going on between her and Brittany, there wasn't much room for anyone else. Rachel didn’t resent it, per-say. She just felt a little bit like she’d been cast aside into a recurring guest role when she used to be a key player in the ensemble, and it was taking some getting used to.

Not that she was jealous. It was just an observation.

It was her turn to fiddle with the tassels now. Rachel could feel herself being watched, and figured she had nothing to lose. Santana was still her best friend, even if she wasn’t Santana’s anymore. “Do you think I’m difficult to love?”

“Yes.” 

When Rachel bolted upright in shock, Santana scrambled to recover the slip. It seemed even she hadn’t intended to be _that_ tactless with her response.

“Sorry. Difficult doesn’t matter,” Santana grimaced, turning to face her properly, “The right people will try to love you anyway. Meet them half-way, and you’ll be fine.”

“Wise words.” Rachel teased, both slightly taken aback yet not at all surprised that such articulate advice had come from her roommate that easily. Santana shoved lightly at her shoulder in response, and Rachel soon began to wonder how much further this conversation could go before she had to talk about…

“Quinn’s a try-er. In case you were wondering.”

Crap.

Rachel stiffened, “What does this have to do with Quinn?”

“You tell me. She was the only one who knew about LA.” Santana wiggled an eyebrow suspiciously, “I thought you guys weren't speaking to each other anymore?”

Rachel pouted, “Honestly, I don't know what we are or aren't doing anymore.”

“Are you ready to talk about it yet?”

Rachel swallowed nervously, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Beside her, Santana quietly rested a reassuring hand on top of her own.

Since they got back from Lima, Rachel had been all over the place for reasons she wasn’t ready to think about, let alone say out loud. Maybe _some_ of those reasons were related to Quinn, but maybe she was also just feeling lost in general. She had been since Finn died.

Morbid as it was, in all her fantasies about death it had been Finn sobbing over her grave, not the other way around. Plus, they’d been older when it happened. Way, way older; after she’d won a Tony or twelve. The thought of Finn going first never once crossed her mind because he was supposed to just _be there._ That was the plan. She’d shown it to him in the binder and everything.

Funny Girl and Finn Hudson. 

Rachel had dreamt of both forever, won one and lost another. Funny Girl was meant to fix everything, especially now that it was all she had left, but Rachel was bored and already wanted out. Or at least a break. Or something. She needed time to sit down and reevaluate everything because her male lead had just been abruptly ripped out of their lives without warning and she wasn’t sure what implications that might have on the wider narrative moving forward. 

So, yes. Rachel had started dipping her toe into foreign waters like LA and Quinn and tequila and Santana’s fancy skincare products (shh). Who could blame her? Just because she wasn’t a grieving mess anymore didn’t mean she wasn’t a regular mess. That was basically the same as a grieving one, only with slightly less crying involved.

The only reason that fact had gone unnoticed for so long was because Kurt was too busy managing NYADA and long-distance with Blaine, and Santana had her whole groundhog day thing going on with Brittany where they kept talking then crying then kissing each other then crying, over and over again.

Rachel _wasn’t_ jealous. It was just an observation.

Had she run off to LA for attention? No. Not at all. She’d gone there because an unexpected opportunity arose, and she was in desperate need of a change of scenery. Exploring alternative career options is a healthy thing to do in one’s youth. And, while Rachel obviously hadn’t considered the impact her running away at such short notice might have had on those around her, it had admittedly led a select few to pay a little more attention to her now that she was back. 

That was fine too.

When Santana’s eyes narrowed, Rachel realised she’d been reading her like a book.

“Listen, I’m sorry if I’ve been little out of it lately,” she spoke quietly, “But next time you need to talk, can you try asking first? Kurt’s going to flip when he sees what you’ve done to his vase.” 

Rachel shrunk into the couch cushions, cheeks flushing a vibrant red. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

The other girl rolled her eyes, but there was a teasing lilt to her voice, “Since when has that stopped you before?”

Rachel smiled, and Santana glimmered back at her in that special way of hers only a few were lucky enough to ever really see. She reached out for another hug, feeling the weight of the day finally releasing from her shoulders as Santana held her in place. Yeah, she’d definitely missed this over the last few weeks. 

Not that she was jealous of Brittany, or anything.

It was just an observ-

The front door crashed open, and with it came Brittany like Rachel had never seen her before; flustered, frenzied, and one tear away from being reduced to a blubbering mess. Santana was up in a flash, racing over to her and trying to work out what was wrong.

The answer came in pieces, sputtered out as a largely incoherent string of broken phrases. Rachel eyed Santana, who looked equally concerned, if not more. She thought she heard the words blood and ambulance in there at some point, but couldn’t entirely be sure.

“Kurt,” Brittany sputtered breathlessly, “He’s hurt.”

* * *

The wait at the hospital was excruciating. 

Burt Hummel made it to New York quicker than they could fathom, and was off talking to the doctors in Kurt’s room. Blaine was still stuck trying to get the next flight in. He’d called Rachel twelve times in the last half hour for an update, but she didn’t have anything left to say. 

All they knew was that Kurt had been jumped by a group of guys on his way home, and called all manner of homophobic slurs as they beat him to a pulp. No one except Burt had been allowed in to see him yet but he was awake to tell the tale. Aside from a few broken ribs, a busted lip, and stitches across the side of his face and chin, he was fine. The doctors said he got lucky; that it could’ve been worse.

It could’ve been better.

Santana was sat in Brittany’s lap on the chair across from her, legs and arms tangled together to the point where Rachel couldn’t tell where one of them started and the other began. They’d been like that for hours, since Santana calmed Brittany down and Brittany returned the favour. If Rachel wasn’t so happy for her friend to have been reunited with her soulmate, she might’ve found it a little nauseating how often the girl nuzzled her head into the side of Brittany’s neck; or even a little cumbersome to watch Brittany constantly littering Santana’s cheek and forehead with kisses like she was on some sort of mission to prove to the rest of the world that their relationship was better than everyone else’s.

Okay, so maybe Rachel was bitter, and Brittany and Santana were actually just comforting each other because their friend was hurt. If she’d spent less time _not_ being jealous in recent weeks, Rachel wondered whether she might’ve noticed leaving Kurt behind somewhere along the way. Honestly, she’d barely said two words to him that weren’t related to grocery shopping since… last month?

It wasn’t good enough.

* * *

“This is our fault.” Santana whispered, her voice the only sound in the room aside from the steady beep of Kurt’s heart monitor. He was fast asleep.

“Yeah.” 

Rachel sat up, crossing the room and dropping into the small gap between Santana and the arm of her chair. Brittany had accompanied Burt to get some snacks from the cafeteria for everyone, but Rachel and Santana chose to stay put. Neither of them wanted to leave Kurt in case he woke up to an empty room. It was the first time they’d all been in the same room together for a while now. Rachel wasn’t particularly proud of the lengths it took to get them here.

“We should’ve paid more attention,” Santana rasped, “He’s been there for both of us and I can’t even remember the last time I talked to him properly.”

“Me neither.” Rachel stared ahead impassively, ignoring the tears collecting against her cheek. “We suck.”

They sat in silence, quietly observing the laboured rise and fall of their roommate’s chest.

“I want to know who did this to him.” Santana spoke lowly, jaw clenched, “So I can return the favour.”

“Kurt wouldn't want that.” Rachel let her head flop down against the other girl’s shoulder, “The police already have leads, we just have to let them do their jobs.”

“They suck at their jobs.”

Santana’s rage was palpable. Rachel could feel it in the way her body trembled, shaking the seat beneath them.

They still hadn’t caught Santana’s attacker, and Rachel knew it bothered her. Actually, it bothered all of them. But up until now it had been on the list of things they weren’t allowed to talk about, so they hadn’t.

She didn’t want Santana to be right this time. Kurt had been attacked by a group of people in a public street. Surely there had to be security cameras or a witness or _something_ that would lead to a better outcome for them. 

There had to be. 

Rachel chose to believe it, because not believing it meant they lived in a world where violent people could hurt her friends and get away with it. Who would want to live in a world like that?

“This isn’t the same, Santana.”

“No,” the other girl let out a mirthless laugh, “It’s worse.”

Rachel hummed, and they sat quietly for a while. It was late, and despite the awkward seating arrangement she somehow found a way to get comfortable, pillowing herself against Santana’s left arm. Her eyes had slowly begun to drift shut by the time Santana spoke again. It was a fragile whisper, barely audible.

“I’m so tired, Rachel.”

“Tired of what?” Rachel tilted her head up towards the other girl. 

Santana’s eyes were glassy, distant. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed tightly, and had Rachel not been leaning on her, she might’ve missed the imperceptible shrug Santana gave her in lieu of a response.

If they’d had a little more time alone together, Rachel liked to think she would’ve asked more questions. She would’ve listened. She would’ve tried to reassure. Hell, she would’ve insisted on them _having_ more time alone together, until she found words that made Santana’s eyes brighten again so that the uneasy feeling in the pit of Rachel’s stomach could go away. 

Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

“You two don’t know how to whisper,” Kurt croaked, peeking one eye open as he interrupted them with a wry smile.

“Kurt!” Rachel practically fell out the chair, racing toward his bed without a second thought. Santana joined not long after. “How are you? Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

“Rachel, that was literally the same question, three times.” Kurt coughed, but his tone was teasing, “I feel fine. Everything hurts and I’ll probably never sleep again, but otherwise I’m fine.”

Santana let a puff of air out of her nostrils at that, and Rachel didn’t miss the way Kurt’s watery eyes shone knowingly at the space behind her head, where their other roommate was standing. She found herself overcome by the pressing urge to suddenly be anywhere other than standing between them.

“Uh, your Dad said to find him when you woke up again,” Rachel nodded towards the door, preparing to excuse herself.

“No he didn’t.” Santana frowned.

“Yes, he did.” Rachel gritted her teeth, “Are you alright to stay with Kurt?”

Santana and Kurt both eyed her wearily, but let her go nonetheless. 

People seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

* * *

Rachel hadn’t been sure where she was going, as long as it was far away.

She only made it a few metres down the hallway before stopping to catch her breath. It was a mistake, because she obviously hadn’t considered the physiological response a rapid intake of breath might have on her nervous system when it was already under extreme emotional duress. In other words, she burst into tears against the wall.

“Are you okay?” Brittany’s soft voice came from behind her, an indeterminable amount of time later. 

Rachel sniffed, turning around slowly to face the other girl as she put on her best stage smile. It must’ve been her voice that gave her away, because her mask was flawless. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The blonde scrunched her forehead up; an expression Rachel had come to recognise as concern in the many months since Brittany had begrudgingly become a more permanent fixture in her life. Or maybe it was confusion. She hadn’t quite gotten a handle on some of the subtler nuances of the girl’s non-verbals yet. 

True to form, Brittany didn’t say anything. Most days, she chose to ignore Rachel completely; even after what Rachel _thought_ had been the start of a mutual understanding they’d reached following Santana’s relapse that night outside the club. Without warning, she stepped into Rachel’s space, rolling her eyes before pulling her into her chest and holding her there tightly. 

After the initial shock wore off, Rachel relaxed into the blonde’s arms. It didn’t take her long to understand why Santana preferred Brittany’s hugs over anyone else’s. They were amazing. She was just the right height for Rachel to tuck her chin into her shoulder, and her muscle to fat ratio must’ve been absolutely _perfect_ because she was somehow not too soft but not too pointy either. Brittany was warm, and she smelt like strawberries. It was magnificent.

Rachel spent most of the hug bracing herself to be rudely shoved away at any given moment, but Brittany let her hang on until she was ready to let go. When Rachel did eventually pull back, the blonde looked just as annoyed to be there as she had been before. She glanced up towards Kurt’s room distractedly, as if Rachel’s distress was some sort of inconvenience she couldn’t wait to put behind her. Rachel wasn’t sure why she even let it get to her. She’d be the lowest person on Brittany’s list of priorities on a good day, let alone on a day like today.

“I hope I’m not keeping you,” she mumbled, wiping at her eyes.

“Actually, you kind of are,” Brittany shrugged, “But I can wait with you until you feel better if you want.”

Rachel folded her arms petulantly, “I thought you found me ‘too irritating to be around.’”

She made a point of quoting Brittany directly. It was something she was forced to hear from her at least once a week, so there was no denying it. The blonde paused, brow furrowing the way Rachel had seen her do with Santana that usually meant something jarringly insightful and considerate was about to come out of her mouth. If nothing else, Rachel was curious as to how that might manifest when directed at her for a change.

“I do,” Brittany nodded eventually, “But Lord Tubbington irritates Santana, and she still looks out for him because she knows how much he means to me, so…”

“You’re comparing me to your cat?” Rachel pouted.

“Yeah, totally.”

Brittany smirked at her, and in a backwards way, it actually made Rachel feel a little bit better.

Jarringly insightful, indeed.

* * *

They returned to Kurt’s room a few minutes later, where he and Burt were talking quietly together about something to do with Carol’s latest home renovation idea. Kurt was all for it, but his Dad wasn’t quite sold yet. Aside from them, the room was empty.

“Where’s Santana?” Brittany frantically scanned the area before turning back out into the empty hallway. There was no sign of her anywhere.

As panic began to set in for Brittany, Rachel eyed Kurt, who immediately averted his gaze. A quiet dread began to brew in the pit of Rachel’s stomach, despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. It felt like someone had forcibly removed her intestine and shoved it down her throat. If this had been in any way similar to how they’d felt about her disappearance earlier, then Rachel didn’t blame Santana for going all Lima Heights on her over it because it was truly, utterly _awful._

“No need to put an alert out, ladies,” Burt chuckled. “She went to the bathroom.”

Rachel released a breath, and felt Brittany do exactly the same beside her. Part of her wondered if they’d all been conditioned to assume the worst by now. It was only natural, given how often they seemed to be right about it, but they should probably learn to handle that a little better at some point. The pair relaxed in the two empty chairs beside the bed, chatting idly to Kurt and Burt until Santana came back.

Five minutes turned into ten, into twenty, then thirty…

Santana never reappeared. 

Rachel often wondered if they might’ve been better off assuming the worst to begin with. 

Maybe then, things would’ve turned out differently.

* * *

An empty apartment.

_When you get your groove on, yeah I go blind_

A note, scrawled hastily in black pen.

_When you get your groove on, yeah I lose my mind_

A girl Rachel never understood, cries out in need of help.

_When you get your groove on the whole world goes blind_

The glue that held them both together, gone.

_So get your groove on girl, we’ll go wild_

A desperate phone call, their only hope.

_We’ll go wild_

Quinn answers on the first ring.

_Just let me be easy to love._

“Hello?”


	21. I Follow Complications Like a Bloodhound (Quinn)

Quinn doesn’t remember the first day she met Santana Lopez.

It was probably a Tuesday.

She doesn’t remember becoming friends with her either. 

Friendship never quite felt like the correct word for what they had. 

Quinn and Santana collected each other the same way one accumulates wealth, or knowledge. You do it because it makes you powerful. 

In all the time she’d known her, Santana Lopez had been a thorn in Quinn’s side. She was a stubborn, infuriating individual, and the only person in all of Quinn’s life who’d made her genuinely contemplate the moral implications of committing murder. 

Thrice.

They weren’t supposed to stay in touch after high school.

Quinn wasn’t supposed to miss her. 

She wasn’t supposed to care. 

Quinn’s relationship with Santana wasn’t always easy. On certain days, it wasn’t even bearable. 

But it was was theirs. 

The world could wrestle it from her cold, dead hands.

_“We loved with a love that was more than love.”_

_\- Edgar Allen Poe_

* * *

It all started with a phone call.

For the second time in so many months, Quinn Fabray was woken up in the dead of night because a terrible event had occurred in the lives of Kurt Hummel, Santana Lopez and Rachel Berry. The first, in hospital; the second, missing. The third, fine; objectively speaking. Quinn had her own opinions on that though. 

When Rachel called, Quinn didn’t stop to ask the important questions.

When?

Where?

How?

Because she already knew _why._

That in itself was enough to have her out of bed and on the next train to New York. 

She was less than half an hour into the trip before the memories came flooding back.

* * *

_ It was a Thursday afternoon in junior year. Quinn wasn’t sure what possessed her to follow Santana after Cheerios practice that day, but she’d had the afternoon free and a rather pressing score to settle; and sometimes her brain had a mind of its own. She found herself parked discretely outside one of the nicer houses in Lima Heights Adjacent, watching her former best friend-turned-frenemy enter the stately building she called home. _

_ Perhaps being slammed into the lockers knocked a screw loose, because after her fight with Santana in the hallway a few days earlier, Quinn felt different. _

_ It started with the little things. She began to pay more attention during practice, noticing the way Sue had shoved the other girl at the bottom of the pyramid like she was some newbie who hadn’t put her heart and soul into the squad for two years. It bothered her. She was concerned they were wasting her talent. _

_ Quinn noticed the way some in her squad flailed around her now, struggling to adapt to a new captaincy when the girl who had kept the ship steady for a year had been mercilessly shoved in the back corner as if she wasn’t still one of the most talented performers they had. It bothered her. She was concerned Sue wasn’t acting in the best interests of the team. _

_ More so, she noticed the way Santana didn’t fight any of it. Not after the lockers. She took her punishment, no matter how unfair, and that was that. It bothered her. Quinn was concerned the girl was plotting something. _

_ It bothered her. _

_ Knifing Santana to reclaim her captaincy had been a necessity more than anything else. Quinn’s sophomore year was traumatic in more ways than one, and she wasn’t eager for a repeat of it. She’d charged headfirst at junior year with everything she had; intent on taking back what was hers, once and for all. Santana had simply been in the way.  _

_ It wasn’t guilt Quinn felt; the end still justified the means. Nonetheless, it was…  _

_ Something. _

_ A hand tapped against the driver’s seat window, startling Quinn. She looked up to find Santana glaring at her through the glass, and rolled the window down slowly. _

_ “What the hell are you doing here, Fabray?” Santana crouched down, eyes narrowed.  _

_ “I wanted to apologise about the pyramid thing.” Quinn wasn’t interested in beating around the bush. She looked the other girl in the eye, “If I’d known Coach Sylvester was going to do that-” _

_ “You wouldn’t have told her about my surgery?” Santana huffed indignantly.  _

_ Quinn pursed her lips, unsure what else to say. They both knew she’d do it all again in a heartbeat.  _

_ “You know, I get wanting to be top bitch again,” Santana snarled, voice dripping with contempt, “But I would’ve thought Lucy Caboose of all people might not come after me for wanting to make myself look a little nicer.” _

_ Quinn felt her stomach flop. “How did you-” _

_ “Oh, please,” Santana rolled her eyes, “I’ve known since freshman year.” _

_ At Quinn’s frown, Santana tensed like a deer in the headlights, as if she’d been caught. In a way, Quinn supposed she had. Santana was basically holding the holy grail of Quinn’s closeted skeletons in the palm of her hand. Why not use it to take her down for good? _

_ “I thought some things were off limits, even for us,” the brunette spoke quietly, before hardening again. “I guess I was wrong.” _

_ “It wasn’t personal,” Quinn swallowed, suddenly feeling like the world’s biggest hypocrite, “But I’m sorry.” _

_ Santana watched her carefully, and for a moment Quinn thought the girl might believe her. She scoffed, pushing up from the window and moving back towards the front door, “Whatever, Quinn. All’s fair in love and war, right?”  _

_ “I’ll assume we’re the ‘war’ in that scenario?” Quinn called after her. _

_ “Hells yes we are.” _

* * *

Barely a second passed between Quinn knocking on the loft door and it’s opening to reveal Rachel, eyes wide and glassy, standing before her. She didn’t have a chance to offer any sort of greeting, instead finding herself hauled in by the shoulders with an awkward half hug and some murmur of a ‘thank God you’re here.’

The apartment was in complete disarray.

Music blared through Rachel’s wireless speaker; a live recording of the New Directions performing Light Up the World. It had been Santana’s contribution to their nationals set-list in junior year; not that she got any credit for it. Quinn had forgotten how catchy it was.

All the furniture had been upturned, clustered together into some sort of elaborate pillow fort in the middle of the room. Discarded pieces of paper littered the wooden floor; maps and drawings that had been graffitied all over, then promptly torn to pieces.

In the midst of all the chaos, sat Brittany.

“She’s been playing that song on loop since we found the note,” Rachel stood by Quinn’s side, pouting, “I can’t get through to her. Literally. She did all of this to block me out.”

Without answering, Quinn moved further into the room, skipping through the area as if she were completing some sort of elaborate obstacle course, until she reached the centre of the fort. She peered through an opening between two cushions to find Brittany hunched over one page of a New York street map, tracing every inch of it with a coloured pencil like it was some sort of crossword puzzle. 

“Britt, sweetie,” Quinn reached forward carefully, closing a hand around the top of hers. “What are you doing?”

Brittany looked up, eyes watery and bloodshot. Quinn could only assume that her friend probably hadn’t slept much in the last 24 hours, given all that had been going on. She reached out to gently take the pencil from Brittany’s hand, only for the other girl to recoil the minute she tried.

“She’s here somewhere,” Brittany stabbed furiously at the map. “I just have to find her.”

A hand shoved at Quinn’s chest, knocking her back slightly. Then the pillow closed completely over front of the fort, sealing it shut. Brittany was lost to the world.

Quinn stood up, a dull ache forming in her chest. She’d seen her friend in various states of disarray before but Santana was always there to handle it. In her absence, Quinn wasn’t sure she knew of anyone capable of understanding the intricate landscape of Brittany’s world enough to find her and bring her back out into the real world. 

Rachel watched from across the loft, returning Quinn’s gaze with a defeated shrug; apparently having reached the same conclusion already.

Where the hell were they supposed to go from here?

* * *

_ Possession must’ve been a common theme in junior year, because Quinn once again found herself following Santana somewhere when she had neither reason nor friendly obligation to do so. By the time Quinn’s brain switched back on, she’d skipped too much of fourth period to go back without risking a detention, so she kept following her until they reached the row of premium parking spots reserved for the Cheerios right outside the front of school. Santana had been the only person to keep hers after they quit the squad, simply because the other girls were too afraid to fight her for it. _

_ Santana climbed into the backseat of her car and began to cry. She wasn’t even trying to hide it. Quinn was unsure whether to feel sorry for the girl, or simply embarrassed on her behalf. _

_ Jumping behind the wheel, Quinn snatched Santana’s keys from her lap and fired up the ignition. She ignored Santana’s perplexed frown, shifting the car until it was hidden behind a couple of parked school buses nearer to the back of the parking lot. Then, she turned the engine off and waited quietly. _

_ Santana’s eyes burned into the back of Quinn’s head, demanding an explanation. _

_ Quinn supposed she probably needed to give one. _

_ It was just… she’d been at a lot of sleepovers with Santana and Brittany over the years, okay? She’d heard things. And it wasn’t just practising for the sake of practising, because if it was Quinn liked to think she might’ve been included at some point. Or at least asked. So she always had her suspicions, but it was none of her business.  _

_ Then Landslide happened, and they might as well have kissed in front of the entire choir room. Quinn was proud of Santana, she couldn’t help herself. There’d been a point in time when she wondered if the girl was even capable of genuine human emotion, and now here she was; raw and exposed for all to see, purely because Brittany had asked her to be. Even if the rest of glee club might’ve missed the point, or been swayed by Santana’s half-baked snark immediately afterward, Quinn knew better. _

_ Santana Lopez was in love with Brittany S. Pierce. _

_ Unfortunately, judging by what Quinn inadvertently witnessed outside the lockers earlier that day, it appeared Brittany didn’t quite return the sentiment in a way Santana was expecting. _

_ “Quinn,” Santana’s husky voice broke through the silence, “What are you doing here?” _

_ “I know,” the blonde answered instead, eyes locked to the steering wheel. _

_ She felt Santana stiffen behind her, “I don’t-” _

_ Quinn’s eyes darted up, catching Santana’s in the rearview mirror. The other girl did her best to appear stoic, but it was a thinly veiled mask at best. Quinn turned around to repeat herself, firmer this time, “I know, Santana.” _

_ What little remained of Santana’s resolve crumbled completely.  _

_ “Quinn, please. You can’t tell anyone,” came her broken plea,“I’ll do whatever you want, just-” _

_ “No,” Quinn shook her head profusely, because of course Santana would assume she wanted something out of this. Love and war, as they say. “Not this. I would never.” _

_ The brunette faltered, her earlier distress quickly replaced with suspicion. Secrets were valuable currency at McKinley, and Quinn’s very recent bout of mono was testament to the fact she and Santana were still very much at each other’s throats most days. But there’d been an exception to that rule, made without Quinn’s knowledge despite being to her benefit. An inexplicable exception, that served both as a reminder of basic human decency, but also a favour in need of return. Landslide for Lucy. It only seemed fair. _

_ Quinn shrugged, “Some things are off limits.” _

_ Santana burst into tears, so Quinn turned back towards the front of the car, giving her a moment of privacy again. She recalled a time, before Brittany, when Santana had been a constant at her side and no one else’s. Perhaps, had they not torn each other to shreds countless times since then, Quinn supposed she might've joined her in the back seat and held her there until she stopped crying. A tiny part of her still wanted to. _

_ “Why are you so afraid?” Quinn asked instead, face pressed against the driver’s seat window as she stared out into the rain, “It wouldn’t be like it was with Kurt. You’re higher on the food chain.” _

_ “It’s not just McKinley.” Santana’s voice cracked, “There’s a whole world of Karofskys out there.” _

_ Quinn had never really thought about it that way. Often, high school seemed so important, so all-consuming, that it became easy to forget it was a mere blip in the grand scheme of things. She’d spent most of her high school career desperately trying to find some sense of identity, grasping at straws in the hope that something stuck. Meanwhile, Santana had stumbled upon herself accidentally and now had to grapple with the reality a large number of people may choose to hate her for it for the rest of her life. Quinn felt an overwhelming urge to reassure. _

_ “Maybe. But there’s only one Santana Lopez,” she spoke softly into the glass, inwardly cringing at how cliche she sounded. Santana was surely doing the same behind her, “Don’t give them the satisfaction of hiding her away.” _

_ “Gross, Quinn.” Was Santana’s only response, sputtered through tears half a minute later, but nonetheless scathing. _

_ Quinn chuckled, reaching back to take hold of Santana’s hand and squeezing gently when the other girl didn’t immediately pull away. The pair sat together quietly, the only sound that of Santana’s sobs and the steady pattering of rain against the window, until the school bell rang. As the parking lot filled with people ready to go home, Santana let go of her hand and Quinn took that as her cue to leave.  _

_ They never spoke about it again. _

* * *

“What did the note say?”

Quinn and Rachel were seated on the end of the bed in her room, the only piece of furniture still left in its original place. They’d left the curtain open to keep an eye on Brittany, on the off chance she reemerged. 

Rachel had her hands rested in her lap, one finger tapping nervously against her right knee. 

“I can’t,” she whispered.

Quinn frowned in confusion. “You can’t?”

“No,” Rachel winced, “As in, that’s what the note said: _I can’t_.”

“Oh.”

“I called everyone I could think of but no one’s seen her.” Rachel bowed her head, “Something’s happened, I know it has.”

Although she could hazard a guess at what Rachel was implying, it didn’t make sense to Quinn. Santana lashed out, not _in._ Quinn supposed what happened to Kurt might’ve thrown her slightly, but the thought of her friend going to this extreme seemed out of character even then. She’d been going to therapy. She was getting better. Surely she wouldn’t… 

Would she?

“Why are we sitting around?” Quinn asked, impatient all of a sudden.

“Because I’ve called _everyone_ , Quinn. She’s nowhere.” Rachel breathed brokenly. 

“She’s not nowhere,” Quinn sighed, brain conjuring long-buried images of a much younger Santana, hiding away in her car from the rest of the world, “She just doesn’t want to be found.”

A frustrated sigh erupted from the fort in front of them, as another piece of paper flew out from one of the pillows. Surely Brittany was running out of map by now.

“Brittany said not to bother anyway,” Rachel sulked, fiddling with the hem of her sweater.

“Why not?” Quinn asked.

“She won’t say.”

“So you called me all the way here to do what exactly?” Quinn stood up in a huff, “Sit around with you and watch Brittany fall apart while we wait for the police to call?”

Rachel’s frustration was palpable. She jumped up from the bed, hands gesticulating wildly in the direction of the pillow fort. “Brittany’s obviously got a plan, Quinn.”

Quinn frowned. She wasn’t surprised by the suggestion Brittany had a plan. Of course she did; Santana was _missing._ But the plan, whatever it may be, was no use to them in its current form; scattered through Brittany’s magnificent brain like some sort of elaborate jigsaw puzzle they’d only been given a quarter of the pieces to. Quinn was never that great at filling in the blanks, and honestly she’d never particularly bothered to learn. Santana had always done it for them.

If Rachel had really called her all the way here to translate, then Quinn was vastly under-qualified. 

“Rachel,” Quinn started, hating herself before the words even left her mouth, “You called the wrong girl.”

Rachel’s lip trembled against her will as she swallowed, watching the fort with resignation, “Maybe, but you’re the only chance I’ve got.”

Light Up The World restarted for the umpteenth time, Santana’s voice rattling off the opening lines with enthusiasm, and Quinn almost wanted to slap her through the speaker and tell her to come back.

It had infuriated her so much when Santana wrote this song. The girl had sat there in the hotel room all day, contributing _absolutely nothing,_ while the glee club struggled to come up with anything decent. It was torture. Then she disappeared for hours while everyone else suffered, only resurfacing at the eleventh hour with a perfectly finished song that beat out everything they’d written all night. Brittany had been with her too, of course, but she hadn’t taken any cred-

Quinn froze.

She turned to Rachel, eyes widening almost comically as the beginnings of an idea formed in her mind. The song, the maps… The answer had really been there all along, hadn’t it? God, she could be such an idiot sometimes.

“Call a cab,” Quinn ordered, “I know where we need to go.”

* * *

_ First it was a one time thing, then a two time thing. Quinn thinks they got to about seven or eight in the end.  _

_ It may or may not have been one of the best nights of her life. _

_ She woke the next morning to Santana’s body sprawled across hers, body aching deliciously from a night of pure pleasure. The other girl was soft, warm, and felt nothing like any of the men Quinn had been with before. It was different, neither better or worse; just different.  _

_ Peaceful.  _

_ If it weren’t for the Santana of it all, Quinn briefly wondered whether she might’ve followed the feeling beyond the confines of that hotel room to see whether it fizzled or flourished. The thought of the night’s events not being a singular occurrence in an otherwise heterosexual string of romantic affairs was a fraction too unsettling to grasp so early in the morning though, especially when the girl in question was still lying very much naked on top of her. _

_ Santana woke a few minutes later, curling into Quinn and sighing softly against her bare chest. It sent a shiver through the blonde’s body so tantalising she feared she may be thinking about it for weeks afterwards.  _

_ “You’re crying,” Santana’s voice was groggy, more observant than concerned, as it pointed out something Quinn herself hadn’t yet noticed.  _

_ The brunette pushed up onto her elbow, staring down at Quinn and brushing the hair gently away from her face. Quinn watched carefully, fighting and ultimately failing to resist her body’s urge to lean into the touch. They lay there in absolute silence, until Quinn found the courage to speak. If anyone understood how she was feeling, it would be Santana. _

_ “When did you know?” Quinn whispered, words catching in her throat. _

_ Santana’s lips parted slightly in confusion, before the meaning of the question took hold and her eyes shone with something Quinn refused to recognise as pity. She reached a hand down to meet Quinn’s, lacing their fingers together before pressing a gentle kiss into her shoulder. _

_ “It wasn’t a single moment,” Santana's thumb traced absent circles over the palm of Quinn’s hand, “More like a lot of little ones. But I think deep down you always know, you know?” _

_ Quinn inhaled deeply, heart fluttering as Santana’s eyes locked with hers. “Yeah, I think I do.” _

_ She must’ve been crying again, because Santana reached out to gently wipe one of the tears away. Then lips were pressing against hers ever so softly, with no intent whatsoever other than to reassure. Quinn melted into the kiss, tears escaping as the uncertainty of everything she was feeling began to hit with full force. _

_ Santana pulled away and rolled onto her back, gently tugging Quinn with her until her head was pillowed against the other girl’s chest. It was then that Quinn broke, in the safe and loving arms of an old friend, knowing with absolute certainty that the conversation had between them would not leave this room unless she allowed it. _

_ Some things were off limits. _

_ “When were you okay with it?” Quinn asked later, haunted by the memories of a scared high school girl crying in a car not so long ago who suddenly seemed ever so relatable. The difference between that Santana and the confident woman laying beneath her now was stark, in the most breathtaking of ways.  _

_ Santana inhaled deeply, stroking her fingers up and down Quinn’s arm as she turned the question over in her mind. Such a long moment passed between them, that Quinn began to fear an answer may never come. _

_ “I’m not sure that’s a single moment thing either,” Santana whispered, squeezing Quinn tightly as if to reassure, “But… there was one night in New York with Brittany that came pretty close.” _

* * *

“I still don’t understand why we’re here.” Rachel complained, pouting from behind her obnoxiously large sunglasses as she exited the cab.

Quinn ignored the girl, because she didn’t really know either. But she had a hunch. 

Dragging Brittany with her out the other side of the car, Quinn linked their hands together. She wasn’t willing to risk losing their only lead if the other girl decided to run off on a whim.

“Where to next, Britt?” she asked.

Brittany’s face scrunched up at their surroundings. They were standing outside the hotel they’d stayed in for nationals in junior year. Quinn was no Sherlock Holmes, but she suspected the night Santana wrote Light up the World might have been the same night she heard about after Schue’s not-wedding. She was 99% sure that’s where Brittany’s head was at too. Or 85% maybe. 

A strong 60%, at the very least.

It wasn’t like they had any other options anyway.

“I don’t remember,” Brittany groaned, stamping her feet against the ground.

“Well, what kind of place are we looking for?” Quinn tried instead, taking Brittany’s sudden responsiveness as a positive sign that they were on the right track.

“It’s a garden,” Brittany shrugged, “With a view.”

“View as in high up?” Rachel slapped at Quinn’s shoulder in a panic, “Quinn, view as in _high up??_ ”

Brittany mumbled an expletive, tugging her hand away from Quinn’s to go sit down at the fountain nearby. She took her trusty map out of her pocket and began holding it up in the air, scrutinising it like a hidden message would appear if she positioned it in the right light.

Quinn kept one eye on her, while turning slightly towards Rachel, “Look, I appreciate this concept may be foreign to you but I’m going to need you to dial down the dramatics for a while and let me handle this, okay? Not everyone’s first instinct when they get sad is to jump off a building.”

Rachel’s cheeks flushed red. Quinn knew she’d wildly overstepped, but that was an apology for later. There was still a part of Quinn that feared that may be _exactly_ what Santana’s first instinct was right now. That had to be their priority. They could all laugh together about how dumb of an overreaction it was later. 

“Sorry,” Rachel conceded, “I’m just really scared, Quinn.”

Quinn rolled her eyes, nudging Rachel out of earshot from Brittany. Rachel’s antics could be grating at the best of times, which these absolutely were not. “We all are, Rachel. Get it together.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

“I’m not here to reassure you.” Quinn snapped, “I’m here to find my friend before she does something stupid and irreversible.”

Rachel stepped back, mouth ajar. Quinn became vaguely aware of a passerby stopping to observe them, but she wasn’t going to apologise. They didn’t know Rachel Berry. Sometimes, Rachel Berry needed to be yelled at. Besides, she gave as good as she got. Quinn had received plenty of angry phone calls from her lately to prove exactly that. 

Nonetheless, this wasn’t the time to confront their ridiculously annoying, entirely Rachel-Berry-driven ongoing relationship dramas, which Quinn absolutely _did not_ want to think about. There were bigger fish to fry. Quinn gathered herself, not yet ready to confront the overwhelming surge of emotions surrounding Santana’s disappearance in fear they might swallow her whole. 

She hadn’t been as involved since Brittany moved to New York, reasoning that if Santana had Brittany she didn’t need anyone else. That was usually the way things rolled with them, after all. It had been idealistic to think that way though, because it assumed a world where recovery was a straight line, and Brittany was an unfeeling tower of strength capable of shouldering whatever was thrown at her. Now, as Quinn watched Brittany begin accosting random strangers for information on the area, a broken shell of the girl she usually was, she realised she’d let not one friend down, but two. 

Burdens aren’t half as heavy when carried together.

Tentative fingers grazed against Quinn’s own, and she glanced up to find Rachel watching. Waiting. It infuriated her that Rachel could turn so quickly like that; a flurry of emotions one minute, then a beacon of calm the next. More infuriating, was how much it was capable of calming Quinn too. She allowed their fingers to entwine, exhaling softly as Rachel did the same. 

Quinn cleared her throat, “I’m sorry. Santana, she’s…”

A friend, enemy, confidante; sometimes all three at once.

Briefly, a lover; a girl in possession of her deepest secret.

A pain in the ass, the bane of her existence. 

Someone she wasn’t nearly ready to lose.

Words weren’t enough, so Quinn shrugged in the hope that Rachel would get the message that way instead. The smaller girl turned to her, smiling tightly as she pulled Quinn into a hug. Quinn only allowed it for a second, all too aware that any moment of comfort right now, however brief, may be a moment of opportunity missed.

She was right.

The distinct sound of sirens filled the nearby streets, a parade of ambulances and police cars sweeping by as Rachel and Quinn pulled away from each other. The logical side of Quinn’s brain told her that it could be anything. This was New York. There was a city full of accidents and crimes and god-knows-what-else just waiting to be attended to. 

The rest of Quinn, though, trembled endlessly with fear, dread, and another indescribable feeling that told her they’d be following the vehicles all the way to their destination. She turned to the fountain, just now realising her back had been turned on Brittany for perhaps a moment longer than it should've been, but it was too late.

Brittany was already gone.

Quinn doesn’t remember the first day she met Santana Lopez.

But she remembers the day they found her.


	22. Learn Me Hard, Oh Learn Me Right (Brittany)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany looks back on her life with Santana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys killed me with all those comments on the last chapter haha... I felt bad, so this chapter is cliffhanger free with a nice lil' dose of early Brittana angst/fluff to make things a little easier before we see Santana's POV on all of this :) Enjoy! (or don't)

Brittany has lost a lot of things in her life.

When she was eight, she lost her favourite bracelet.

_ They found it under the backseat of her Mom’s car a few years later. _

When she was twelve, she lost her sister.

_ They were playing hide and seek, but Brittany forgot she was meant to be looking. _

When she was fourteen, she lost Lord Tubbington.

_ It turned out he just blended in really well with the living room carpet. _

When she was twenty, Brittany lost Santana.

Certain losses are harder to take than others.

* * *

The note didn’t mean anything.

_‘I can’t’_ wasn’t even a finished sentence, so it meant even less than nothing. I can’t… what? Cook? Sleep? Find a pen that writes more than five letters and one apostrophe before the ink dries out?

It meant nothing.

Except, obviously sometimes stuff that doesn’t mean anything at first actually ends up meaning everything after a while. So by that logic-

No, it still didn't mean anything.

* * *

They had their first kiss at cheer camp.

Well, technically their first kiss was at one of Noah Puckerman’s house parties midway through freshman year. It started out as a dare from some horny footballer wanting to watch two girls get their mack on. Then, after that they realised it was just an easy way to get attention, so they did it all the time. It didn’t hurt that Santana tasted nice and was a really amazing kisser either.

But their first **real** kiss, without an audience, was way better.

_ It was the last night of what had been a gruelling three weeks of endless practice, and the rest of the squad had understandably elected for an early bedtime. Santana was bunking with Quinn, who’d called shotgun on the top bunk, while Brittany managed to talk them both into letting her take the single bed on the other side of the room for a change. Santana wanted it at first, but it hadn’t taken much to talk her around. She seemed to make a point of hating everyone except for Brittany, which made sense. _

_ She was pretty awesome, after all. _

_ The only problem was that it turned out the bunkbeds were actually comfier than the single bed, and as exhausted as Brittany was, she couldn’t sleep for the third night in a row. She’d basically been lying on a hard wooden surface every night for weeks, and had genuinely begun to contemplate going outside and sleeping in the woods instead. That was more like a plan B though, if plan A happened to fall through. _

_ “Are you awake?” Brittany whispered.  _

_ Santana cracked one eye open, face scrunching into a puzzled frown like she always did when she was waking up. She shifted onto her elbow to look at Brittany, “I am now.” _

_ “Sorry,” Brittany pouted, “I can’t sleep.” _

_ Santana sighed, peeling back her blanket and immediately closing her eyes again. Brittany was up in an instant, crawling across the room and climbing into the small line of empty space beside the other girl. _

_ The bed was barely big enough for one, let alone two, but Brittany and Santana had a knack for making things fit. The blonde cuddled up into Santana’s side, draping one arm over her waist and nuzzling into the side of her neck. Santana relaxed into the touch, like she always did, except this time Brittany caught herself staring for a moment too long. _

_ So did Santana. _

_ “What now?” Santana grumbled, apparently frustrated at being kept awake. _

_ And maybe it was the fact that Brittany hadn’t had sex in three weeks, and that Santana’s lips were really close to her right now. Or, maybe Brittany just liked kissing her best friend because she tasted great and did that incredible thing with her tongue that made Brittany feel all gooey inside even though they were supposed to be faking it. Maybe, it was sheer exhaustion deluding her into thinking it was a good idea. _

_ Whatever it was, Brittany couldn’t come up with a reason **not** to kiss Santana without an audience until she’d already done it. _

_ Their lips only connected for a second before Santana jolted back, eyes wide like she’d just been electrocuted. Her body was rigid, firm under Brittany’s touch for the first time ever. It was jarring, and Brittany wasn’t quite sure how to make it go soft again. _

_ “Sorry,” Brittany’s cheeks flushed pink, “I just really wanted to do that.” _

_ Santana had swallowed nervously, but then her lips were on Brittany’s again and she was pretty sure it was Santana who started it this time. Not that it mattered anyway, as long as neither of them stopped anytime soon. The blonde sighed into the kiss, grip tightening instinctively against Santana’s waist as the other girl straddled her. _

_ “It doesn’t mean anything,” Santana pulled back abruptly, and Brittany felt her stomach lurch. _

_ She wasn’t sure why. _

_ Honestly, Brittany didn’t tend to be clear on what most things meant; least of all this one. But she did know that if Santana was talking it meant they weren’t kissing, and now that they’d started she was having a hard time coming up with a reason to stop. She’d go along with whatever she had to, as long as they could go back to what they were doing before._

_ “Okay.” _

_ It worked, because after a moment of hesitation Santana’s lips were crashing into hers, tongue pushing its way into Brittany’s mouth as they melded together in a way they hadn’t done before. They’d made out a lot at parties. Like, a **lot** a lot. But this was different somehow.  _

_ It felt like more. _

_ Then their hips were grinding into each other and Brittany’s hand was working its way between them until it found its way down the front of Santana’s pyjama shorts. She’d been just about to dive in deeper when Santana’s mouth disappeared again, but only for a second. _

_ “It doesn’t mean anything,” she panted against Brittany’s cheek, before capturing her mouth in another searing kiss. All Brittany could do was moan in acknowledgement and hope that Santana mistook it for agreement.  _

_ Because hours later, when their limbs were tangled together and Brittany had experienced the kind of high she’d never felt with anyone else before, she became positively certain of one thing and one thing only. _

_ It **did** mean something. _

* * *

Rachel Berry wouldn’t shut up.

Brittany moved some furniture to drown her out. Her brain felt fuzzy and it was really overwhelming, because she already knew where Santana would be. She just… couldn’t remember where it was.

If they went to whatever hotel they’d stayed at for Nationals, Brittany was pretty sure she could figure it out. But she hadn’t been able to calm herself down long enough to ask for help and Rachel was the worst psychic ever. It’d been _hours_ and they still hadn't left the loft yet.

Thank God for Quinn Fabray.

* * *

The first time they slept together was after prom night.

Well, technically the first time Brittany and Santana slept together was right after the first time they kissed in private, and obviously they’d had sex a tonne of times after that. But actual sex, with feelings? 

Brittany counted that as a different kind of first.

_ They carpooled home with Quinn, because Finn got kicked out, Karofsky ran off half way through the dance and Brittany didn’t have a date in the first place. It wasn’t until they got to Brittany’s house that Santana caught her by the arm and quietly asked if she wanted to go back to hers instead. Quinn was pretending not to listen, but Brittany was fairly sure she knew what was going on between them and had just elected to ignore it all.  _

_ It was a big deal that she was asking now, after the night they’d just had. They hadn’t gone home together, even to hang out, since the day Santana stood her up on Fondue for Two. Brittany didn’t so much consciously decide to agree, as she did find herself automatically saying yes. _

_ The next thing Brittany knew she was lingering awkwardly in the doorway of Santana’s bedroom, watching as her best friend struggled to get out of her prom dress. _

_ “Need any help with that?”  _

_ Santana whirled around, eyes scanning Brittany from head to toe. She’d already changed into the usual singlet and sweatpants from Santana’s pyjama draw, but in hindsight maybe that wasn’t allowed anymore. The air was charged between them, and as the minutes passed by Brittany found herself regretting every decision she’d made that got them to this point. _

_ Then, wordlessly, Santana turned away to face the mirror on her dresser, fiddling nervously with the corsage on her wrist. Brittany moved warily through the room, locking eyes with Santana in the reflection and giving her one last opportunity to back out. When she didn’t, Brittany reached forward to undo the rest of the zipper, tracing her hand along the other girl’s shoulder and tugging lightly at the single rose covered strap of her dress until it fell away.  _

_ Brittany’s hands danced over Santana’s collarbone, and honestly she couldn’t have found an excuse for it if she tried. She pressed her body into Santana’s back, sweeping the other girl’s hair to the side and letting her lips tentatively fall into the curve of her exposed neck. Santana sighed raggedly at the contact, relaxing into Brittany’s touch and abandoning the corsage completely. She turned around into Brittany’s chest, fingers skimming against the hem of her shirt before finding themselves linked with Brittany’s. It was always a marvel to Brittany, how easily they fit together. _

_ Some things were just meant to be. _

_ “Do you want to watch a movie?” Santana’s eyes darted to Brittany’s lips before landing on the fingers that were idly mapping out patterns across her own. Brittany waited patiently, until the other girl found it within her to look back up again. Their mouths had drifted closer by then, and it was almost suffocating being so close to Santana after such a long time apart. _

_ “Not really.” _

_ Santana’s breath tickled against her cheek, then Brittany was losing herself in a pair of hooded brown eyes and long lashes until she couldn’t see anything at all, because warm lips were brushing against her own and she’d never kissed anyone she cared about with her eyes wide open. Certainly not Santana. _

_ There was a tiny part of Brittany that was still unsure whether the timing was right. Santana wasn’t quite ready to accept herself; to show the world who she was, and Brittany owed it to both of them not to let the other girl hide what they had away again. But Santana wasn’t hiding anymore, not from Brittany at least. She could feel it in the way the other girl’s hands gripped at her waist, drawing her in impossibly close as her tongue slipped wetly between Brittany’s parted lips. This wasn’t Santana, her best friend, in search of a warm body to pass the time and using Brittany as a last resort when all the other options fell through. Not anymore. _

_ This was Santana, the girl who loved her. _

_ That’s why, when Brittany pulled back to catch her breath, it hadn’t been a surprise to find Santana already watching her with an openness she’d been dreaming of since their first night together. But it had been a relief, because even now, as Santana’s lips were crashing back into hers, open and eager, there was a part of Brittany that was still terrified she was about to be shut out again.  _

_ Whatever semblance of doubt Brittany had left faded away the minute the back of her knees hit the edge of Santana’s bed. She took a chance, turning them both around until it was Santana falling back onto the mattress instead, because in all their time together it’d never been that way and Brittany was desperate to change that. Desperate, because the thought of seeing Santana lose control, of finally submitting to her emotions and letting Brittany **love** her the way she’d always wanted to, was within reaching distance for the first time. _

_ And in the early hours of the morning, when Brittany woke to find Santana sobbing quietly into the pillow beside her, she had simply held her like a best friend would until she cried herself to sleep. It was all the indication Brittany needed to know that tomorrow they’d go back to being awkward and unsure of each other again, because the reality was that Santana still wasn’t quite ready to accept how much she loved her, no matter how hard she was trying to. Brittany decided she could be okay with that though. For now, at least. _

_ Because she was really, really close. _

* * *

Brittany didn’t follow the sirens.

Why would she? They were going in the wrong direction.

The walk from the hotel to where she needed to be was about ten minutes. Brittany was halfway through the process of retracing her steps when she’d tripped absently over a raised edge in the pavement… 

… and stumbled right into oncoming traffic.

* * *

The first time Santana accepted herself was the afternoon before Nationals in New York.

Well, technically Santana was still learning to accept parts of herself, because it’s not always that black and white. The world sucks, and if it sucks hard enough it can make you doubt yourself sometimes. It waits until you think you have it all worked out, then throws something else your way, just to test the limits a bit. The argument could probably be made that life is a never-ending struggle for self acceptance, but that might just be Brittany getting carried away. 

The point was that New York was the first place she ever saw Santana let her true self shine, for all the world to see.

It was beautiful.

_ Santana had just finished chopping most of Quinn’s hair off, and although they’d told her otherwise, neither of them were exactly sold on the new look yet. It wasn’t as if they were professional hairdressers or anything. Brittany was actually a little surprised Quinn had agreed to it in the first place, but sometimes people made stupid decisions when they hit rock bottom.  _

_ In any case, Santana hadn’t been eager to stick around in the event that Quinn started having second thoughts about it. It hadn’t taken much convincing for Brittany to agree to sneak away with her for the afternoon._

_ “Do you think Quinn’s right?” Brittany took a bite of her hotdog, falling into step with Santana as they left the stand to continue down the street. _

_ “Not usually, no.” Santana shrugged, preemptively linking her arm with Brittany’s right before the blonde tripped over a bump in the pavement, “Be careful.”  _

_ They’d spent the afternoon exploring the city, and were scarily close to being late for their next rehearsal. Santana led them across the street, adamant they could cut through a small community park to save time. It was high on a hill, a few blocks away from the hotel, and they were barely through the gate before the city noise began drifting away; the only sounds remaining that of footsteps crunching against leaves and one particularly vocal bird. _

_ Brittany shook her head, “I meant with what she said about us, about not finding love?” _

_ The blonde regretted the question the moment she asked it because Santana faltered, stopping them both in the middle of the pathway and withdrawing her arm from Brittany’s. “I mean… I guess I kind of thought we maybe already had?” _

_ It was so tentative, so unsure, that Brittany felt her heart starting to shatter. She’d meant to start a dialogue, to try and address the night they’d spent together recently, but had once again gone about it the wrong way and Santana was already starting to retreat. Her best friend shuffled nervously on the spot, eyes drifting until they were focused intently on the bark of a nearby tree. When her hand reached out to trace over a tiny knot in the wood, Brittany caught it, drawing Santana back in until she was close enough for the blonde to loop her arms around her waist and hold her in place. _

_ “Brittany,” Santana’s voice trembled, eyes darting around the empty garden in terror, “What are you doing?” _

_ And maybe, if they’d been in Lima, Brittany would’ve withdrawn at the first sign of panic. She would’ve let Santana have her fear until she was ready to let it go, because sometimes being yourself was scary - especially when it made you different.  _

_ But this wasn’t Lima, it was New York, where they owed nothing to anyone. There was no expectation here, and the only people who would recognise them enough to care even slightly about what they were doing were cooped up in a hotel room writing songs they’d never sing again after tomorrow. So Brittany didn’t let go this time. She knew one day that Santana was going to see herself the way Brittany saw her, and when that day came she’d light up everyone’s world as much as she already did Brittany’s. _

_ Why couldn’t it be today? _

_ “You’re safe here, Santana.” Brittany tilted the other girl’s chin up to look at her, “Why not take a chance to be who you really want to be?” _

_ In all honesty, Brittany had expected resistance, or another excuse.  _

_ What she got was so much better. _

_ Within seconds, Santana surged forward, and Brittany wasn’t sure if it was a rush of blood to the head or if the noisy bird had been joined by an entire chorus line of his even more obnoxious friends, but all she heard the minute Santana’s lips met hers was white noise. _

_ Santana’s hands palmed possessively at the small of her back, clinging to her like she might dissolve if she ever let go. It was instinctive, the way Brittany’s hands slid up Santana’s body to snake around her shoulders, latching onto her with equal desperation. She couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, because she’d waited so long for this, for Santana to finally give her everything, and even if it was temporary there was no way in hell Brittany wasn’t going to dive in and savour every second of it.  _

_ The blonde could feel her heart thudding as their lips slanted together hungrily, only parting for breath when they couldn’t possibly afford to leave it any longer. Even then, Santana refused to let go completely, tilting her forehead against Brittany’s cheek and breathing her in as a shy grin spread across her features. God, if it wasn’t the most awe-inspiring thing Brittany had ever seen. _

_ Brittany knew it was fleeting, a single moment of freedom before the real world forced them both back into hiding for a little while longer._

_ Somehow though, she couldn’t bring herself to care. _

_ The admission came quietly, much later, when they were curled up against the tree together after what felt like hours of simply existing in each other’s company, trading kisses and laughter and exploring each other the way they deserved to. The way any other teenagers in love would._

_ “I want this, Brittany,” Santana cleared her throat, glancing up nervously, “I just need time.” _

_ Brittany linked their fingers together, gently squeezing Santana’s hand, “Okay.” _

_ “Okay?” _

_ “Yeah,” Brittany smirked, leaning in to scatter kisses teasingly along Santana’s cheek, jaw, lips… “Okay.” _

_ Santana giggled, a delightfully melodic giggle that Brittany wanted to bring out again and again until the birds realised who the real singer was and finally shut up. She lunged forward to tickle at Santana’s abdomen until the girl was collapsing into the ground and taking Brittany down with her. Brittany landed on top of Santana, playfully pinning her hands either side of the other girl to trap her, but stalling when she looked down to see Santana staring so openly back up at her. Her first thought was to smile and say hello, and she hadn’t managed a second one because Santana was tilting her head up to connect their lips in a soft, tentative kiss that Brittany couldn’t help but fall into until it swallowed them both whole.  _

_ It was freeing._

_A while later, Santana pulled away, palm sneaking between them to rest gently at Brittany’s chest. “I wrote a song,” her eyes flickered absently down to the blonde’s lips before darting back up, “About us.” _

_ At first it surprised Brittany, but then it didn’t. Santana had spent the last few days barely contributing to the glee club’s efforts to build an original setlist for nationals, but this was also the same girl who’d expressed her feelings for Brittany almost exclusively through song all year. Of course she’d written one for them._

_ Brittany felt the butterflies kicking around in her stomach the same way they always did when Santana would sing to her. Good butterflies, of course; the kind that made her want to listen to every note she possibly could until the end of time.  _

_ “Can I hear it?” _

* * *

It happened in an instant.

The blare of the horn, the screeching of tyres against well-worn road. Brittany was given barely a fraction of a second to contemplate that she might be about to die before a familiar hand caught her own, tugging them both to safety.

Brittany had to blink twice before she believed it, but by the third time she opened her eyes there wasn't a single doubt left in her mind. Even if it felt too good to be true.

Santana, breathless and trembling but _alive_ , was holding them both upright on the verge of the sidewalk. 

“I told you to be careful.”

Brittany has lost a lot of things in her life.

Most had a tendency to come back on their own, when the time was right.


	23. It's a Silly Time to Learn to Swim, When you Start to Drown (Santana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana spends some time alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter update, already... Who am I?? 
> 
> Don't get used to it ;)
> 
> This chapter has some vague mentions of suicide/suicide attempt. I've updated the tags, but please consider this a trigger warning.

There are plenty of reasons to give up on the world.

It’s a cold, horrible place sometimes.

Good and evil are supposed to balance each other out, but lately? The scales have tipped.

Santana sees darkness wherever she goes.

It’s in the actions of the selfish, who take what they need and give nothing back.

It’s in the actions of the foolish, who make one silly mistake at a frat party and never wake up again.

It’s in the actions of the violent, who bully and harass and attack people.

It’s in the way all of it seems to go without punishment, and good people suffer.

Santana’s never been surer than she is now that the world is a terrible place.

She’s getting really tired of it.

* * *

What happened to Kurt shouldn’t have hit her as hard as it did.

Santana felt like she was suffocating.

It started the minute Rachel left the room, and only grew worse as the minutes passed by without her there.Up until that point, it’d been easy for Santana to blame the growing uneasiness in the pit of her stomach on fear. Fear that Kurt might not wake up; fear that there might be complications when he did; fear that whoever did this to him might come back for round two; fear of what would become of the rest of them without him…

Fear, fear, fear. 

But now Kurt _was_ awake, and he wouldn’t stop looking at her with that… that face. Santana kept having to remind herself to breathe before he noticed her turning blue.

“I meant what I said about the whispering,” Kurt pursed his bruised lips, “I heard everything.”

Santana had looked up at that, nervous. Among other things, “And?”

“And, you need to stop blaming yourself whenever something bad happens to me or Rachel,” Kurt shuffled more into an upright position, “You’ve more than earned that fifty dollars by now, trust me.”

“How did you-”

“Please,” Kurt waved her away, “You really believe Finn carried that much cash around?”

Santana fought off a smile, “I did think it was a little out of character.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure he ever paid me back.”

They both chuckled quietly, then fell into a heavy silence. 

“Are you okay?” Santana asked, and they both knew she wasn’t just talking about physical injuries anymore.

“No,” Kurt shrugged, with less than half the poise he’d usually carry, “But if people think I’m going to hide who I am just because it bothers them then they can think again. That’s never been me. I won’t do it.”

Santana winced, the subject matter hitting far too close to home. Although she was proud to see Kurt bouncing back so quickly, it bothered her a little bit to see him barely flinch in the face of a literal attack on his sexuality when she’d spent months in therapy trying to find the courage to hold a girl’s hand in public again. Santana knew it was unreasonable to resent her roommate for loving himself, but it’s not as if her feelings had ever listened to her brain’s instructions before.

“You could’ve died, Kurt.” Santana pointed out

“But I didn’t.” 

Kurt reached for Santana’s hand, squeezing gently, as if he’d realised they weren’t entirely talking about him anymore. It was strange. Of all people, Santana supposed Kurt would have been a good person to talk to about all the insecurity brought about after that night in the club, given that he’d been singled out for the very same reasons in the past. But he’d been so insistent on sweeping the whole thing under the rug with Rachel that Santana hadn’t felt much like sharing anything with him, as much as he tried to get her to talk. There was a cruel irony in having them come full circle now.

Better late than never.

Inhaling deeply, Santana dared look back at the boy, “Why can’t we just love the people we want to love, Kurt?”

Kurt’s eyes widened, and he hesitated to speak for a while. What came next hadn’t been advice, or any sort of attempt at reassurance; instead, the tiniest whisper of a question, “Santana, what did you mean before, when you told Rachel you were tired?”

In a way, Santana was almost glad she wasn’t given time to respond.

“Okay, who’s hungry?” Burt barged through the door with Brittany in tow, carrying an array of vending machine snacks.

Santana caught Brittany’s eye, right as the other girl shot her a wink and a kind smile. Brittany was shaken by the incident, having been the one to find Kurt in such a state, but now that she’d calmed down she seemed to be more preoccupied with how Santana was coping with it.

Or, how she wasn’t. 

But they could talk about that when they got home. This wasn’t about her. 

A warm hand threaded gently through her own, Brittany’s sheer presence managing to be the exact kind of comfort Santana craved. She leant against the blonde, resting her cheek on Brittany's shoulder and holding on tightly to her forearm. 

Sometimes they didn’t need to talk at all.

* * *

_ “It looks good on you.” _

_ Santana had been just about to follow Dave out of the auditorium when she heard the voice. The rest of the glee club had already cleared out, leaving only her and Brittany standing there in their stupid white shirts with their stupid flaws outlined in bold black letters on the front. Sure, Mr. Schue’s idea had been great in theory. ‘Accept yourself - let’s sing about it!' Somehow ‘big nose’ and ‘can’t dance’ didn’t quite feel on the same level as ‘lesbian’ in the way of confessions that would turn you into an outcast for the rest of your life. _

_ ‘Bitch’ was way more on brand for her anyway. _

_ Or so Santana had thought, until Brittany threw another shirt in her face and got all worked up about it. They'd been on shaky ground ever since Santana’s dumb and embarrassing confession outside the lockers a few weeks earlier, and something about the way the blonde stormed off as if she had any right to an opinion made Santana want to at least try and prove her wrong.She **did** love herself, and she **could** dance with Brittany. _

_ As it turned out, she actually couldn’t. _

_ “Thanks,” Santana managed.  _

_ The blonde caught up to her, reaching out to trace the letters on Santana’s shirt with her finger, “I’m sorry I spelt it wrong.” _

_ It was the closest Brittany had come to touching her in weeks, and Santana’s body jolted back at the contact. She swallowed nervously, “Well, this is technically a less controversial shirt to wear around school anyway, so…” _

_ “Yeah,” Brittany smiled tersely, “That’s true.” _

_ An awkward pause, then the blonde was closing what little distance remained between them. It was stifling in the best of ways, and for a fraction of a second Santana contemplated letting go completely; consequences be damned. But there would be consequences, wouldn’t there? Consequences she wasn’t ready to deal with. _

_ At all. _

_ “Brittany,” Santana found herself stepping back, eyes drawn to the ground in shame. Something about being so close to the other girl while wearing a shirt that was quite literally intended to broadcast how gay she was to passersby made her want to run away and vomit.  _

_ What if someone saw them? _

_ The blonde took the rejection on the chin, head dropping to look at her shoes before she forced a smile and looked back up.  _

_ “You should keep the shirt,” Brittany brushed past Santana, fingers tentatively grazing against hers as she passed by. All Santana could think to do was watch her leave. _

* * *

Santana hadn’t meant to run away.

Not deliberately.

Kurt’s room was smothering her, and she had this heightening sense of impatience that she couldn’t quite rationalise now that he was fine and awake and… back to being a little annoying.

At first she thought it was because Rachel had been gone for a while, so she’d tried to excuse herself to go and find her. Except, Brittany had offered to do it instead and Santana recognised the olive branch for what it was, so she let her go. But that had been a big mistake, because Brittany standing next to her had apparently been the only thing holding her together.

She had to get out of there.

It turned out that the hospital bathrooms didn’t have any windows, or any other form of natural light, which was something Santana was completely unaware of until she got there. What kind of place didn’t have windows? She splashed some water in her face and took a few deep breaths, but the more attention she paid to how nervous she was feeling, the worse it got. 

Her chest felt tight, like an elastic band about to snap. If it weren’t for all those dumb breathing exercises Kathy had given her lately, Santana might actually have forgotten how to do it entirely. She made a beeline for outside, hoping the fresh air might calm her down. 

It didn’t.

She’d blinked, and then she was back in the loft. Although, at some point it stood to reason that she’d probably taken a cab to get there. Whatever hope Santana had of feeling better in the safety of her home was lost the minute she opened the front door. Apparently all walls that evening had conspired against her, and now even the bedroom curtains seemed to be on the move; determined to trap her inside at any cost. It was stifling. She couldn’t breathe.

So yes, perhaps she’d packed a bag and taken that useless Lexapro anxiety stuff Kathy prescribed with her. What? She was feeling a little anxious. Today could be a good day to start using it.

There’d been a note left behind with some words on it which Santana hoped had been an explanation of some sort; she couldn’t recall what she wrote. Either way, she was already well on the way to nowhere and had no intention of turning back to check.

God, why couldn’t she breathe?

* * *

_ “One word: Bram,” Tina’s shrill voice crackled through the speaker phone, “Bye hun.” _

_ The line went dead, and Santana was left alone in an empty dorm room trying to figure out what the fuck that word even meant. The penny dropped a moment later. _

_ Brittany and… **Sam?** _

_ She felt sick. _

_ When her roommate got back from class and invited her to some party the guys on level four were throwing, Santana was pouring pre-drinks before the girl had even put her books down. She’s pretty sure they were both drunk by the time they left their room. _

_ “And that’s how we do it in Lima Heights, y’all,” Santana sunk the ping pong ball into the red cup, basking in the cheers of her fellow classmates as they celebrated her eighth and final win for the night. Final, because she was bored and wanted a drink that wasn’t cheap beer for a change.  _

_ A soft hand caught her by the arm half way to the drinks cooler, “That was impressive.” _

_ Santana spun around, pointedly undressing the unfamiliar woman with her eyes. She was brunette, slightly shorter than Santana, with piercing greens and a hard edge to her features that was so absolutely nothing like Brittany. Not that Santana was comparing, or anything. The girl swayed on the spot, and Santana knew it wouldn’t take much to get exactly what she wanted from her. _

_ “Wait until you see what else I can do,” she purred, as if she had any game whatsoever.  _

_ Somehow, it worked. Before she knew it Santana was grinding up against the girl in the middle of the dance-floor. She never bothered to learn her name, content to discover everything she needed to know within the rhythmic movement of her hips; the way her body melted and pulsed in time with Santana’s own. It was electric. _

_ At one point or another, when Santana was wasted beyond recognition and eager to find them somewhere private, the girl had turned to her with a dangerous smirk on her face. She held out two small blue pills, which Santana didn’t recognise. She’d never been particularly into… any of that. _

_ “How about we take this party up a notch?” _

_ It’d be nice to blame it on the alcohol, but Santana hadn’t even cried yet, which was suspicious given how drunk she supposedly was. Whatever the reason, her decision to take the girl up on her offer had **nothing** to do with Brittany. _

_ Nothing at all. _

_ Santana brought the girl’s hand up to her mouth, tipping not one but both of the pills into her mouth and swallowing; eyes locked on the brunette in front of her. The high was consuming her within minutes. _

_ What happened after that was a dizzying mess of glowing bodies and absolute euphoria. All thoughts of Brittany, of ‘ **Bram,** ’ faded away, along with whatever gut-wrenching loneliness she felt at realising she’d lost the love they had for good. None of that mattered anymore. Because Santana Lopez, the once-closeted lesbian who lived in constant fear of what people thought of her, was fucking a stranger in the middle of a crowded room. _

_ She dropped out of Louisville the very next day. _

* * *

The park was lonely without Brittany.

Most places were.

Santana found herself slumped against a familiar tree, struggling to get comfortable without Brittany there to lean on. Realising it was her fault the other girl wasn’t with her, she felt overcome by a wave of sadness. After all, you actually had to tell people where you were going before they could follow you. 

The surrounding garden was hideously overgrown, hiding Santana perfectly from outside view despite giving her oversight of all the surrounding streets. It was the kind of thing someone like Quinn would admire for being beautiful in its own way; a thriving ecosystem left forgotten and untouched by the chaos of the city around it. If someone lame like Quinn _did_ say that, Santana supposed she might agree with them.

There wasn’t another soul in sight, Santana’s only company that of a small bird that had taken up residence in the tree above her head. She wasn’t sure how she got here, only that she’d made it all the way to a bus station before realising she’d forgotten her keys, wallet and phone. So, the bus was out of the question, along with pretty much every other method of escape.

Not that she was running away.

Wandering aimlessly through the city got boring very quickly, but Santana wasn’t ready to go home yet. Somehow, she’d ended up in the last place she ever thought she’d be again. There’d been a time in her life, when the world grew particularly dark and cold, that Santana started to believe this park had only existed in her dreams.

Santana pulled absently at the tree bark, chuckling emptily at the memory of last time she’d tried to do so. It was ironic, actually, that she’d found herself sitting in that particular place without Brittany. When they were here before, they’d been on the precipice of something great, and Santana had jumped in head first under this very tree regardless of the consequences. Now, well-versed in consequence, she sat alone. 

A part of her couldn’t help but wonder whether her brain was trying to make her feel better or worse by bringing her here.

Worse, definitely worse.

Last time, Santana had felt just as lost as she did now. The girl she loved had been waiting years for Santana to love herself, and for one blissful afternoon she’d managed it enough for both of them. She’d been so uncertain at the time, hiding from a world that would’ve gladly never seen her for who she was, and terrified of what may happen when it did. Now, she had unequivocal proof that her fear was justified.

The world _didn’t_ accept her. If it did, kissing another girl in an empty diner would’ve gone unnoticed. 

But it hadn’t, had it?

She and Kurt were proof of what happened when you didn’t fall in line. They'd survived, but they weren't living.

Frustrated, Santana slammed her head back against the tree, wincing when it hurt more than she’d anticipated. She hated that after everything she’d been through, she was right back to feeling exactly like she had in the beginning.

Empty.

How was that fair?

In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to stop existing. If only for a little while, probably not forever. 

Santana curled her knees up into her chest at the very thought of it, because the tiny ounce of rationality still left in her knew how completely insane that was. Her elbow caught the strap of her bag as she moved, knocking it over from where it’d been propped up against the tree. 

The case of Lexapro tumbled out, pill packets spilling onto the ground near her feet. 

Santana reached forward to clean it up.

For one very brief moment, she found herself curious about what might happen if she-

Fuck. 

* * *

_ Santana really didn’t understand herself sometimes. What kind of idiot blew off a date with a smokin’ hot choreographer to rush home and help their ex-girlfriend? _

_ The worst part was that she didn’t regret any of it. _

_ Brittany’s tear-filled speech to Sam in the choir room had been a little hard to swallow, and she’d barely gotten through it before the blonde was closing in on her instead. They’d been over for months, since before Santana left for New York, but this time it actually felt like the end. She couldn’t stomach hearing her own goodbye speech, and Brittany had the decency not to give her one. _

_ Probably because it wasn’t goodbye for them. _

_ “Will you visit?” Brittany wavered just outside her gate, lip trembling as if she was being sent to purgatory. They’d left everyone else behind at airport security, but Santana had a flight to catch soon too. _

_ Santana smiled tightly, forcing back tears, “Will you?”  _

_ “Yes.” _

_ After a moment’s hesitation, Santana inched forward, arms opening wide for one last hug. Brittany seemed to have had other ideas though because, completely out of nowhere, the blonde was tugging her in by the jacket and an achingly familiar pair of soft, pliant lips were on hers. Brittany kissed fiercely, like the world was ending. _

_ As Santana watched Brittany’s plane take off, she started to think it might be. _

* * *

She must’ve screamed the word aloud at some point.

God knows she thought it enough, over and over again. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck._

Santana didn't cry. She just... lay there in the dirt until her thoughts were drowned out by the passing wail of emergency sirens. A freezing cold wind blitzed through the garden, and it occurred to her that she should probably have thought to bring a jacket. She became acutely aware of the fact that her jeans were now covered in dirt, and dreaded to imagine what the rest of her body looked like. How long had she been lying there?

“You look awful,” came the voice, as distinct and recognisable as the day it first corrected her posture during Cheerios practice, freshman year.

Quinn approached the tree slowly, with Rachel trailing not too far behind. Both watched her with a degree of uncertainty, and as surprised as Santana was to see them here, she couldn’t help but immediately notice who was missing. Quinn’s eyes flickered down to the ground, catching the open pill box.

“Quinn,” Santana started, a wave of unwarranted emotion coursing through her body, “I wasn’t-”

“It’s okay if you were,” Quinn dropped immediately to her side, just in time for Santana’s body to crumple into her chest and cling onto her like a lifeline. It’d been a broken, agonised whisper, “But we’d really rather you didn’t.”

Santana felt Rachel’s warmth take up the space behind her, pressing up against her back until she was sandwiched so tightly between the pair that falling into oblivion no longer felt like a viable option.

“How did you find me?” Santana asked a minute or so later, voice muffled by the fabric of Quinn’s old lady cardigan.

It was Rachel who answered, stroking her fingers through Santana’s hair and showing no sign of stopping. The sirens in the distance grew quieter by the second, “By accident. We were following the ambulances… Quinn’s a fast runner but she has a truly terrible sense of direction.” 

“Yes Rachel, I humbly apologise for leading us to exactly where we needed to go,” Quinn sniped back.

Santana released a wet laugh at the pair. It was so stupid and ridiculously inappropriate for them to be bickering with each other over her shoulder right now but here they were, unable to help themselves. Dumbasses. She clutched onto the mess of tangled limbs encircling her body and inhaled deeply, emboldened by the unyielding presence of two people who loved her.

So _that_ was how breathing worked.

It seemed so obvious now.

The moment didn’t last any longer, because a cool gust of wind hit them and Santana’s subsequent shiver broke the trio apart enough for her to look around again. The rest of the park was definitely empty, and it hadn’t taken more than a second before Santana asked the question that’d been brewing in the back of her mind since the girls found her.

“Where’s Brittany?”

The answer came in the form of a car horn and screeching tyres, aided by the unparalleled view of a familiar blonde staggering out onto the busy road beneath them.

Santana had never run so fast before in her life.

* * *

The cab ride back to the loft was… quiet.

Brittany hadn’t said a word to anyone since Santana saved her, but she’d held onto Santana’s hand in a vice-grip the whole way home. If she didn’t know exactly what was going on, Santana might’ve been unsettled by it.

Fortunately, Quinn and Rachel read the room. No sooner had they arrived in the apartment, than were the pair awkwardly coming up with some excuse about needing milk.

Santana ambled around the apartment, coming to an eventual stop outside the pillow fort. She scanned the upturned loft, stomach turning at the idea that she was somehow responsible for the state it was in. For the state _Brittany_ was in. They had to have a conversation, and Santana had to explain why she’d done what she did. She just didn’t know where to begin, because she barely understood it herself.

Brittany watched passively from beside Rachel’s bedroom curtain and, after an agonising five minute stand-off, decided to speak first.

“I want to marry you.”

It wasn’t the statement she’d been expecting Brittany to lead with, so to have it be the first thing that came out of her mouth had Santana’s lips parting quietly in shock. 

“Not today, I mean.” Brittany corrected, folding her arms and swallowing nervously, “But sometime soon, I want to marry you. And then I want us to grow really old together and have kids and twelve houses and a bunch of cats that move between the houses with us like one of those travelling circuses. I used to want a lion, too, but Rachel said that might be a little unethical.”

Santana frowned in confusion, “Britt, why are you-”

“Because sometimes I think you forget.” Brittany cut her off, moving closer but maintaining a healthy distance between them, “I don’t think it’s on purpose, and I know you’re hurting, but you run away and you forget to take me with you, and you don't think about what'll happen to me if you don't come back one day... It hurts.”

“Brittany,” Santana closed the gap, reaching out only to be pushed away angrily.

“You don’t get to be the one who dies first, Santana.” Brittany choked out through tears.

Santana’s heart sank. She stepped forward, tugging on Brittany’s arm once, twice, then three times until the girl finally caved and let herself be held. Santana buried her head into Brittany’s neck, both giving and receiving comfort in equal measure.

Brittany’s sobs were relentless, but Santana didn’t have the words to reassure.

She liked to believe that if no one had found her, everything would’ve still been okay. Day would’ve turned to night, then she would’ve picked herself up off the ground and gone home without any help or encouragement. She would’ve apologised for scaring everyone, and blamed her disappearance on a panic attack or needing to clear her head; both of which were technically true. Then, she would’ve told them to stop harassing her, because she was fine. 

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? 

Quinn and Rachel _had_ found her.

Santana had no idea what she might’ve done without them there.

No, claiming to be okay would currently fall squarely within the realm of words that were completely untrue. Santana was not okay. Not by a long shot. Brittany would see through her within seconds and she knew better than to trap them both in a bold-faced lie again, regardless of how much she wanted to believe in it. Santana pulled away from the blonde, thumbing gently at the corner of Brittany’s mouth until blue eyes were locked on hers. She found strength in the only six words she could think of in the moment that she knew, unequivocally, to be true. 

“I want to marry you too.”

There are plenty of reasons to give up on the world.

Sometimes, you just need a reminder of why not to.


End file.
